


Sun-Blooded and Lost

by Ecipoe



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dalish Gods, Dalish elf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:53:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 38,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26145943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ecipoe/pseuds/Ecipoe
Summary: A collection of events in the life of Atisha Sabrae. It isn’t easy being the heiress of the title Elgar’nan. And it certainly doesn’t help when all of Thedas seems to be trying to destroy what remains of the Dales.In which Arlathan never fell, but the addition of the Veil still damaged elven society beyond repair, reducing the great empire of Elvhenan to the small country now known as the Dales. Ranges from the Fifth Blight to a heavy focus on Inquisition. The existence of the Dales has made some things very different in Thedas.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

Atisha is many things. She is a mage. She is an elf. She is the daughter of one of the most prestigious bloodlines to ever grace the Dales. But mostly, Atisha is tired. Atisha is exhausted. It has been three days ride to this thicket in blistering summer heat and ruthless southern storms, and she has about had enough of this game. It has been three days and not once has she spotted a single Darkspawn.  
  
Atisha is beginning to think her father sent her out here hoping she would perish from heat and from the monstrous cloud of fire orange her hair has turned into. Surely, if she isn’t careful her own locks will smother her. Darkspawn haven’t been spotted in the Dales since the last Blight and everyone knows that. She’s sure her father and mother are laughing from their glittering golden throne room in the capital. She reminds herself that soon she will be home and she will make her parents wish they had given her to one of her uncles to train. Father will regret ever making her suffer the riding blisters forming on her thighs and feet. Maybe uncle Dirthamen would help her. The thought comforts Atisha so much she almost forgets how miserable she is. Almost.  
  
Her muscles ache. The salt of her sweat keeps slipping into the spaces where her lips have cracked and it stings. The sunburn on her ears is blistering. All of this is fine. All of this Atisha would be delighted with if not for the fact that this mission is pointless. If this was actually something to protect the Dales she would shut up and take all the ache with grace. But it isn’t. There is no Blight in these woods, and there is no corruption. She’s hunting an old man’s fever dream. She’s suffering through the worst part of the year in the woods while her sister is getting magic lessons from Ghilain’nain. It’s more than unfair. It’s downright criminal. Atisha pulls back on her Hart’s reins as her party comes to a clearing. On her right her Guardian, Suledin, comes to a halt as well. On her left the human Warden her family has employed settles his own steed a little further ahead.  
  
“This is ridiculous. It’s been three days, and all we have seen are signs of a high dragon and lots of grass. The Elders were wrong, Suledin. We should return home and tell my father.” Atisha announces. She hopes if she says it with confidence he won’t ask their resident expert his opinion and this whole thing can be done. Of course Suledin looks at her with mirth in his eyes.  
  
Her Guardian raises one dark eyebrow at her then turns his attention and his mount to face the warden. His hand rubs comforting circles on his Hart’s neck.  
  
“I wonder what our Warden thinks.” He hums in reply holding back the twitching of his lips when Atisha glares.  
The warden her family has employed is a quiet man. Atisha has half a mind to think him mute, except she’s heard him occasionally muttering about rain or slopes or tree roots in his way. He’s, well she isn’t sure what he is she knows so little, so she deigns to use the word polite. Hard to be rude when the man hasn’t said anything to offend her and makes himself so scarce.  
  
Their warden, truly Atisha doesn’t even know his name or if he has one beyond Warden, turns his gaze towards them. His eyes are nearly the same color as river rocks, or undergrowth, a hazel green that fixes on Atisha and reminds her how uncomfortable the Shemlen make her. There’s darkness there. Hunger. Whether it’s a warden thing or a human thing or a man thing she does not know, but her skin crawls nonetheless.  
  
“Your Elders weren’t wrong. There are Darkspawn here. Just not enough to be considered an invasive threat.”  
The words rumble out slow and clear. The man’s brow furrows, like he’s focusing hard on something. Atisha’s Hart paws at the earth beneath them, eager to move. The air is hot and thick and uncomfortable here. The trees have eyes, Atisha reminds herself. They are unwelcome guests here.  
  
“They’re another day south.” The warden finally says, face relaxing. He nudges his horse forward leaving the elves behind as he works his way forward.  
  
Suledin blinks and shrugs. Atisha sighs and resigns herself to rub burn salve over her ears neck and hands tonight. The comforts of home will wait. For now, the Sun’s daughter is on the hunt. Whether she wanted to or not.


	2. Chapter 2

“Your father is attempting to do what?”

And just like that Mahanon Lavellan comes bursting through the door to Atisha’s sunroom startling Suledin and Atisha herself. She blinks at her cousin. Mahanon storms up to her the metal on his vestments tinkling like wind chimes. Atisha sighs and pushes aside the documents she was editing. She caps the inkwell just as he slams his hands down on the desk.

“Mahanon,” Atisha sighs his name out. These theatrics are becoming a nuisance. “It’s always a pleasure to see you. Please, sit. Suledin, would you mind finding us some refreshments.”

Suledin looks at Atisha like she’s grown another set of ears. Then he carefully sheathes the blade he had instinctually drawn and bows low before excusing himself. 

Mahanon stiffly settles himself into a chair. “Cousin,” he spits the word like venom. “My father tells me that your father is working to reduce if not eliminate House Lavellan’s vote in council. Now, why would Uncle do that?” He’s trying very hard to conceal his panic, but his knuckles are white with how hard he is gripping the edge of the chair. It isn’t exactly a baseless accusation. Her father holds the title Elgar’nan, head of the gods. But lately the Lavellans have been making deals with the others of the pantheon to raise their power beyond that of their station. This development is concerning to the Sabraes. Of course Father is attempting to correct the flow of power. And of course the Lavellans see it as an attack. But this is the first Atisha is hearing of it.

“Mahanon, you know he doesn’t tell me anything.”

“You’re his heir. You need to fix this.”

“It’s my duty to serve house Lavellan now is it? Was I sold to Uncle Solas recently? I’m hurt, no one told me.”

Mahanon glares. Atisha would be hurt by that if she had ever been close with him. But she has never been allowed to be close. And surely Mahanon feels the same. Although there is a little genuine panic in his eyes, and the way his nose and brow scrunch with anxiety makes her heart ache just a little. And he’s just sitting there silent with those sad dark eyes and furrowed brow and,

No. Atisha is stronger than this. She isn’t going to fold just because her cousin looks a little upset. 

“Have you talked to my father?”

Mahanon looks taken aback. “No, you don’t just knock on his door and say hi hello I would love to speak to Elgar’nan, yes, right now, thank you.” He snaps back. “Do you want me traded off to be some ambassador in some far away country where they don’t even speak Trade?” 

Point taken. 

“Fine. I’ll talk to my father. But you talk to yours and tell him to stop eating off other peoples plates, or we’ll both end up so far north we won’t see the sun.”

“Deal.”

“Now get out, I’ve got actual work to do Mahanon.”

“Not until I get those refreshments from Suledin.”

Atisha groans.


	3. Chapter 3

The Warden is an older looking man, possibly in his late 70’s if Atisha is basing it on her people’s years. Which she is. Because he is maybe the tenth Shem she’s ever seen. There’s a bit of white in his beard. And isn’t that strange in itself? A beard. Mythal’enaste they can grow hair on their faces! But the rest of his beard, still so strange, is dark like wet oak. His eyes are deep set and dark, but glitter a brighter hazel green in the light. The man’s hair his the back of his neck in length halting at his shoulders, the same dark brown speckled with grey-white here and there. And by the stars and Creators is he tall. He stands a whole head above Suledin, and a whole two above her.

Father says he is a grey warden. They have sent for his services to help locate the darkspawn the elders have foreseen.

At first, this excited Atisha. An interesting human here in the capital! The stories he could tell. The places he had been. She wants to know it all. Is Orlais really populated by men who wear masks carved of cheese? Are the Antivans really always wearing gold? Do all Fereldans have wardogs? What is the world like outside the Dales? This man could tell her. She could learn something other than Tevinter is the mortal enemy. She quickly discovered he was not much of a talker. Much to Atisha’s disdain. If she was still a child she might say she was a little heartbroken. But she is not a child so instead she admits to being a bit disappointed. 

Then Atisha learned she was to travel with the silent dream crushing Shem.

“What’s your name?”

She had asked him as they prepped their mounts for travel. He had simply looked at her with those piercing deep eyes and pushed the bit into his horses mouth. Two days later in the middle of setting up camp he had mumbled to himself about the tree roots catching on his boot and hurting his ankle, so Atisha learned he could speak. He just didn’t want to speak to her. That childish part of her was equally hurt by this as it was angry. 

On day four, when they had finished killing off all ten of the darkspawn they managed to track down he answered her. Atisha was wiping sweat off her brow. The fire they had set to consume the corpses did not help with the summer heat and general exertion from combat. Her legs ached from riding and running and sliding across the ground and from the numerous bruises and cuts on them. And when she sat to rest, the Warden had finally spoke to her.

“Thom. My name, you asked it earlier. It’s Thom.”

And had Atisha known him well she would have thrown her water flask at the back of his stupid griffon helmet for being so dramatic and stubborn. Earlier means thirty minutes ago, she wanted to say, not four whole days. Mythal’enaste maybe she was wrong. The man must be slow. Likely from getting his head hit by hurloks. She huffs and looks to Suledin for confirmation that she isn’t being unreasonable. He looks like he’s choking trying not to laugh at her anger. Suledin turns his gaze to the warden, eyes glittering with amusement. 

“Well Thom,” Suledin begins from where he was washing blighted blood off his armor and leathers. “Next time don’t walk in front of me while I’m trying to loose an arrow, yeah?”

The human and Suledin both laugh at this while Atisha processes that Suledin just said ‘next time’ like darkspawn hunting is anything she will be doing again soon. He lives to make her miserable. Worst Guardian ever.


	4. Chapter 4

“You don’t understand,” A very drunk Mahanon whines at Atisha. It’s been approximately forty minutes since they sat down with a couple cups of wine to play a game of cards, and Mahanon has already exceeded his limit. “You’re the daughter of Elgar’nan. There’s no shortage of options for you and your sister. I’m the adopted son of Fen’harel. The whole pantheon calls me sethlin behind closed doors and cousin, I’m going to die alone.”

Atisha has no idea why cards has turned into a conversation about arranged marriages. Nor has she a clue why it is apparently a good thing to be handed off to a random partner. But Mahanon is sniffling and his beautiful dark hair is falling into his cup, ruining his wine and his braid. It’s pathetic. His cheek is flat with the table as he draws a card and whines. “Why me? Why do I always get the bad draws?”

Atisha stifles a giggle and watches him agonize over his discard. “It’s not fair. I get bad cards and no suitors or ladies or what have you and you sit there with, with him! Just sitting there! The whole of the Dales envies you.” Mahanon thrusts his finger towards Suledin as he speaks. Suledin for his part does not react with annoyance, and Mahanon does have a point. Suledin is quite beautiful. Especially because he does not show his upset. Like a marble statue. A marble statue with ink black hair and eyes so dark blue they may as well be black and the perfect forest green vallaslin. Suledin with his sharp jawline and handsome nose and long thick eyelashes. Suledin with his soft lips and perfect accent and his wonderfully trained brain that holds details like a book. And Atisha has never thought of him that way. And she knows she never will. No matter what the courts think.

Her nose scrunches with distaste at Mahanon’s fussing. “Yes Mahanon, they should all be jealous to not have an assassin babysitter assigned to watch your every move. No offense ma’ni.” Suledin hums in agreement where he’s reading behind her. Mahanon throws his cards down in a fit. “It’s not just him! Even the daughters of Sylaise are arguing over being in your house! And you know who I was offered? I was offered to join Ghilain’nain’s oldest son’s house not as a god, not as the heir of Fen’harel, but as a concubine.”

Atisha hums in response setting her cards down and taking the winnings before redealing the hand. “And you should be offended that you are so pretty.” She mumbles a little hurt. “Mahanon, people want you because you are pretty and kind and smart and very, very talented. I am wanted because I am Elgar’nan’s heir. The others will never see Uncle’s seat as legitimate and that is not a fault of yours. For what it is worth, I think you will make an amazing Fen’harel, cousin. Now stop whining and draw. It’s your turn.” 

Mahanon draws his card, a little smile playing at the edges of his mouth. He must have drawn well. Then his brow furrows and he flicks his eyes up, fingers toying with his cup. “Atisha,” he begins as he fishes his hair out of the cup dripping wine all over the table. He has an air of nervousness that concerns her. He flicks his tongue along his lip for a moment, steeling himself, then asks, “Has anyone ever asked you what you want?”

The question startles her. Suledin freezes where he was turning a page. Atisha has always been told what she would be. Everything was decided before she was born. Suledin would serve and protect her. She would be heir. She would dress speak eat train breathe sleep learn a certain way. A decided way. And then she would marry maybe many others from other royal houses and make her own house and keep peace and have many children and rule as Elgar’nan. 

“They haven’t have they? Well, they should. I want to be the next Dread Wolf. I want to serve my people. I fought for it. If you don’t want to be All Father then, why you? Why not Eralath? Why not anyone else who wants it? Why do you have to suffer and give up everything? What does Atisha Sabrae want?”

And his words shake her. What does she want? She thinks of the first time she saw Thom and all the questions she had. The world, what is it like? Being human or dwarven or even qunari, what is that like? What does Orlais look like? Are there elves outside the Dales, what are they like? What are the oceans like? Does the air taste the same? Is Weisshaupt so beautiful it gleams in the din of the Anderfels? Is Kirkwall so dangerous as the rumors say? Are there people like her out there?

Does Atisha want to be responsible for a whole country? Constantly fighting to keep peace with other gods. Constantly keeping her people first.

“No,” Suledin breaks the silence. “No one asked her. No one asked me. And we are here now, and we walk this path, and Mahanon, they cannot take this from us. Atisha has never wanted this but by the stars she will be the greatest of Fathers. I will die before anyone takes that from her.” He stands, crossing the space briskly. Suledin places his palm down in front of Mahanon’s glass. His voice darkens. It takes the tone of the old things, the scaled things. 

“Do not ask again.”


	5. Chapter 5

Atisha’s mouth is dry. Her veins are ice cold but her skin is hot. She bears down her will, pulling the energy into her hand with everything she’s got. Across the way her father throws up a barrier. Glittering, golden, his hair ignites to fire in the sunlight. Elgar’nan is truly at his best on the field. She wants to make that smile a grin. It takes all her focus, all her will, but she condenses that power. It’s like holding a star. Bright and impossibly dense.

“Heads up!”

She shouts, and then hurls. The energy hits his barrier and explodes, crackling out into brilliant electricity. The sheer force throws him back, shattering the barrier from the center out. The reverberation snaps back at Atisha. Her magic is mean. A whip that throws her as well. Lack of control, she should have constructed her own barrier. 

Father’s laugh booms across the training field. 

“Now that was a punch! I see you aren’t useless in combat magic after all.”

His praise makes her heart sing. Then the fireball smashes into a barrier in front of her. A barrier she did not make. Blue. Suledin. She hadn’t been paying attention and had missed father attacking. He had gotten his feet under him again and tossed a simple spell and she missed it. And when the smoke and dust clears, Father is frowning. 

Atisha wishes she excelled in combat magic, but she doesn’t. She’s a healer. The instinct of a fighter just wasn’t passed down. Sure the immense power reserves and will was, and sure she’s trained it for years and honed her reserves. But lightning and fire and ice, they don’t come to her like the flow of energy in the body does. Not like it does for her sister. 

“Atisha,” her father begins, exasperated. “Have you been training with Jun like I asked?”

She swallows her nervousness. She has been. Jun has been trying and trying to get her barriers right. And she’s been workin so hard with him. She’s just not very good. But not for lack of trying. Sometimes she thinks Uncle Jun has given up on her too.

“Yes father. I have. I’m not very good, but I have been.” Atisha dutifully answers.

Elgar’nan frowns deeper. He looks to Suledin who nods to confirm yes, she has. 

“Very well. I want you to stop with Jun. You specialize in energy and force not physical elements. As much as I hate to say it, you need to learn from Solas. I’ll make the arrangements.”

Atisha can’t help but feel bitter. Eralath gets to train with father and she isn’t even Heir. And Atisha isn’t weak, she just isn’t made to kill. Why should that be so bad a trait in a leader? Why is Atisha disappointing when her skill saves lives and helps people? She’s tired of being passed around as the failure child. Father doesn’t have the time and doesn’t care to fix her. 

But maybe Uncle Solas can help her. Jun, and Ghilain’nain, and Falon’din couldn’t. So she won’t get her hopes high.

If she can’t do this, what kind of war god will she be?


	6. Chapter 6

It has been three months. Three long grueling months. Atisha thinks she has finally gotten the hang of the magical techniques her uncle has been teaching her. Barriers are coming naturally to her now. She is even managing all shapes and sizes. She has learned how to concentrate her energy to specific points in barriers and learned how different shapes can handle different forces. Atisha has learned how to pull residual energy from the air and concentrate it into force. Force magic. It turns out she is quite skilled in force magic. It makes both her and Solas brim with pride to see how far she has come in such a short time. Surely, Atisha thinks, her father will be proud.

Originally, Solas had thought that perhaps a type of death magic would be more fitting. A healer would be able to channel will into a corpse with a kind of grace that other mages wouldn’t have. And sure, she could get the animals he brought her walking again, but truly, Atisha didn’t have the talent to augment them further. Not yet. That was a lesson for another time. But Solas is nothing if not observant, and in his lessons he observed one common strength. Atisha has immense physical control of pure energy. Maybe she is not particularly capable of manipulating that energy’s geometric shape to call upon an element, but she can at the very least command sheer raw power.

Most mages find the shapes and math behind fire or ice easier.

He is impressed.

And so he begins lessons on shaping that force beyond a barrier. Can you flatten this melon for me? Move that stone. Throw that shield. Simple things that eventually evolve into the condensing of that magic in her hand. Excellent, now point it out. Sharper. Faster. More power. And soon she is practicing the technique of Knights. Energy blade and shield shaped barriers, lashing out like a warrior. Perhaps Alisha is lacking in magical understanding, but she more than makes up for it with fervor. By the third month Solas is introducing basic elements to her energy dagger. 

Fire and ice she struggles to much with. Lightning, like pure energy, is less rigid. Harder to grasp. It requires more focus. Solas is sure his niece has plenty by now. His heart swells with pride the first time he sees sparks around the blade she has conjured. It is quickly replaced with panic as her magic turns volatile the vibrations clashing and ending with an explosion that rattled his teeth from across the room. Luckily, she was unharmed. Barrier erected in time and stray magic dancing through the air. And she had looked over at him and beamed.

“I want to try again.”

And try again she did. Again and again and again. The ground of the training ring was scorched black. Her clothing had holes burnt straight through. Her hands were numb and burning all at once, the skin stretched tight and dry and cracked and bleeding. And she did it. She had stabilized the most volatile element to be an outer shell of her blade. The energy has made such a crisp sound, crackling like nuts over a fire. The echo of her magic filled the space between them and Solas watched, proud like she was his own child, as she gave it a few test swings.

Atisha dismissed the weapon swiftly after, turning on her heel to her Guardian. He can feel the joy radiating off of her as she grins to Suledin. Solas watches this too with a sort of regret as she ran to the man kicking up ash in her wake. There are certain things expected of the god Elgar’nan, and kindness is not one of them. Power, level-headedness, an ability to keep the peace no matter the cost, and when peace isn’t an option, to eradicate whatever threatens it with impunity. These are the things required of Elgar’nan. And Atisha is such a compassionate girl. He is sure she could be the next All Father. Solas can see it. She has potential. His heart aches to know what it will cost her though. What innocence she will lose. In this moment, he is reminded of how deep his dislike for his so called brother goes.


	7. Chapter 7

It happens like this.

One day, Atisha goes to study magic with her uncle, the Dread Wolf. And she excels. One day, her Uncle, so proud of her and so bitter at the way their people have fallen, gives her an orb. He tells her it is an heirloom of their family. A toy. A puzzle. And so Atisha dedicates herself to learning the puzzle. The orb, smooth and ridged fits between both her hands and is so heavy. She washes her magic over it and feels channels where the energy can flow freely. Dips. Waterfalls inside the ball where magic stores itself and waits. If she can connect the channels maybe it will open like a flower, like a music box, maybe the ball sings. 

And not with magic.

And so the daughter of the sun begins the undoing and does not know better. 

She feeds the orb. Sleeps with it on her nightstand. Tends to it like a garden. Push with a little more energy, a little more mana, and oh look that chamber has slid open. It is a puzzle that takes many weeks, months, maybe even years. And the prospect of completing the puzzle and making her uncle proud excite her beyond her wildest dreams.

And while she is learning her heirloom, the rest of the world moves forward. 

Father summons her to the Sun Citadel, and so she goes. And when she arrives, by his side is her mother and sister. Father tells her the world outside the Dales is becoming volatile. That wars are beginning again. Wars of magic and men, and politics, and blood, and fear. He tells her they have found shemlen scouting parties at the borders. The quick-bloods are so greedy by nature. They are not content with the land they have and they want more. But Father cannot leave the Dales. He cannot risk the people being without their protector. And so, the sun must extend the reach of his rays another way. It is an honor, he tells her. 

Atisha disagrees.

It is a punishment.

He will send her to the human nation of Orlais to negotiate an understanding. He does not say alliance. Alliance implies a sense of equality, and those creatures are hungry greedy things. Atisha is to turn their open mouths to south. She wants nothing to do with their supposed neighbors. She wants to see the world but not like this. Not as a hand off to an unknown place. And so, she argues this choice.

“But Father, I am the First of the Sun. Surely, I am needed here, with our people.”

She had protested to no avail. Her father had pressed his lips to flat line and imposed the worse of the punishments.

“If you will not be grateful for what you are given then you will trade tasks with your sister. Eralath will subdue Orlais. You will attend the human religious gathering in Fereldan. You will convince them to halt their aggressions, daughter. Our people have lost too much to lose more. And these humans think us corrupt and on the side of their mages simply because we use magic as well. You will correct this view.” 

The journey was long and perilous and more than once Atisha longed for the sky of her homeland. The stars here were the same, but in the wrong place. And the humans looked upon the Dalish Royal Guard with disdain. Alisha knows nothing of their religion. Only that it allows the imprisonment of mages, and encourages the impoverishment of non-Dalish elves. But after many months the journey had come to an end when the road stopped in a little town called Haven. Atisha and her guard were walked to a massive stone structure south of the village.

And so Atisha and her puzzle-orb and Suledin and his bow found themselves on the icy stairs to the shemlen Temple of Sacred Ashes.

And Thedas was shaken to her core.


	8. Chapter 8

It has been years since Atisha has seen the grey warden who goes by the name of Thom. Then she was just a young hunter, unskilled in any form of magic and preferring the comfort of a bow or blade in her hands. Now, she is the First of the Sun, and the Inquisition’s elven ambassador. Atisha must stifle the smile threatening to creep up on her when she sees him. How could she have thought him so old when she was younger? Her inexperience with shemlen had her calling him a Elder. Oh, she knows better now. He’s maybe Suledin’s age. Maybe ten years her senior.

But he does not looks well. Thom’s eyes are dark underneath telling of exhaustion. Atisha is no expert on humans, but she thinks he looks pale and gaunt under his beard. She could be wrong. His brow is furrowed in the same way it did then when he was focusing on finding darkspawn. But this time, the concentration never leaves. He is walking with the Lady Inquisitor, both of them talking in low voices as they pass her by on the way to Skyhold’s war room. Atisha finds herself burning with curiousity. 

“Lady Inquisitor, please wait a moment.” 

Atisha calls out. She hands off the carving she had found to one of Leliana’s people and scurries to catch up with them. Evelyn slows down and turns to wait. Thom looks at his hands. Rather nervous looking if you asked Atisha. Evelyn fidgets with her gloves as she waits. A nervous habit formed out of desire to hide the mark. The mark that Atisha knows so well. The mark she will never admit guilt for. 

“Your highness, we were just on our way to the war room. Would you care to join us?”

Evelyn invites out of kindness as Atisha approaches.

“Please Inquisitor, I’ve told you to call me Atisha. You wouldn’t dare call Cassandra by her royal title, so why should I have one here?” 

“Because Cassandra would kill me simply by looking at me. And besides, your people think you beyond royalty. It’s the least respect I can show.”

“Evelyn.” Atisha can’t help the chiding amusement in her tone. Evelyn turns a very pretty pink and quick hides her cheeks behind the flow of her hair. Atisha can’t help her open smile at that. She likes to think her and Evelyn will be friends one day. As soon as Evelyn comes out of her shell more. Atisha gestures towards the war room reminding them that there’s a meeting.

“All formalities aside,” Atisha begins once they continue their walk. “It is good to see you again, Thom. What brings you to Skyhold?”

Both Warden Thom and Evelyn halt in their tracks. Evelyn looks a bit dumbfounded, but Thom just looks confused. He stares at her for a minute, eyes looking for even the slightest detail of recognition. Atisha reaches up and imitates a puff ball around her head with her hand. Thom’s eyes light up and he laughs. It is a deep mirthful sound that carries across the great hall. 

“Maker’s balls, you’re her. That Dalish girl. Your hair. It’s flat.” 

He’s laughing so hard he barely gets the sentence out. A childish part of Atisha burns with embarrassment before being pushed away. They reach Josephine’s office and Thom is still choking on chuckles. Evelyn looks absolutely puzzled. Atisha is thinking of all the horrible ways to make him stop laughing. Maybe she’ll chill only his toes in his boots, just a little. Or take some electricity and then his hair will stand up funny. Or maybe she will just have to wait out the storm and eventually get an answer to her question.

“I guess we will have I wait until the meeting to find out.” Atisha says to Evelyn who nods solemnly. 

As interesting as it is that she knows him, both of the women are more concerned as to why a Grey Warden has come here when the rest have disappeared.


	9. Chapter 9

Atisha solves the puzzle orb and instantly wishes she hadn’t. 

She had left it in her bags for just a moment.

It wasn’t her fault.

How was she supposed to know the monster had been searching for it? How was she supposed to know her game was a tool to rip apart the world? As if it was a thread pick and this reality a cheap loose linen. Atisha did this, and didn’t do it all at once. And she pays the price.

She solves the orb and the world turns green-white. It isn’t instant. She had left it in her bag, solved and leaking magic like a fool. And an hour later the temple ripped itself into pieces. The taste of her Uncle’s smooth magic invades her senses. The air is more. The ground is more. Distantly she hears screaming. Distantly, somewhere at the edge of her mind, Atisha knows that those screams are not just the humans. They’re also Suledin. And Atisha does not care. It’s almost disturbing how little she cares, because there are wisps dancing through the air. She can hear the snow singing. It’s as if everything that ripped her from her destiny is flooding through the power here, and she is a part of it. Her fingers twist gleaming butterflies of magic in front of her. For a moment she completely forgets people are dying. Just for a moment. Then she is ripped back into the awful reality of stones flinging themselves from the earth, blood melting the snow, fingers and hands and eyes and legs crashing around her with sickening squelches. There are angrier things now. Awful misshapen men and women with dual voices. Men and women in blue and silver armor marching through the mess like it is nothing only to fall when the magic catches them. Their beautiful armor melting around them, melting black and red like warped glass.

Atisha runs.

She solves the orb. She carries the blame. And she takes off running through the explosion like it is slow moving water. It is not just Fen’harel’s magic in the air. She feels her own touch distinctly and something else. Something wrong. Twisted. Something very very old and foul. That magic is sticky, invasive, it feeds on the energy in the air and roars by her whipping her hair loose from her braid and ripping ice from stone. It gnaws at her barrier with awful sticky teeth. The color of this magic, Atisha thinks, is syrup red. Sunset red. Blood on blades red. And it wants her. It wants everything. She does not look for the orb. She does not want to know what her uncle has had her do. Did he know this darkness was hunting her? Did he pass the cursed orb onto her to avoid this magic’s touch?

Atisha runs fast and she runs far. Her veins burn with it. That other magic. That wrong magic. It leaves blisters on her skin. Her lips are bleeding. She loses her fingernails to it and still she runs. Mythal’enaste, she hopes that the gods are with her. Later, when she is asked how she survived when she was not in the Fade like Evelyn was, Atisha will answer honestly. That answer will always be ‘I don’t know’. But she runs until her lungs feel as though they are splitting and her boots are melting off her feet. Even the earth is hungry with this foul magic.

And distantly, her heart aches from something other than its own panicked beating. 

In the back of her mind she understands that her shadow is not behind her any longer. Atisha looks at her bloodied fingertips and feels the skin peel from the bottoms of her feet, and she knows Suledin is not with her. She looks at the sky, bleeding green and angry, and she knows she is alone. And it hurts.

Later, when asked why she as at the Conclave she will answer honestly. She was stupid and stubborn and petulantly argued with her father. And for it, she lost everything. And the world lost more. But she will never tell them what she did. She will never tell them how she unleashed this havoc. How she fed the beast who had come to hunt their human holies. And when they see the creature, the darkspawn who calls himself a man, she will not tell them that it was she who handed him his power. Her nail beds will remember the crawl of his magic. Her feet will ache. But she will never admit guilt for the things he summoned using her residual strength. She will never admit that he drank her residual energy from the air like it was the sweetest of meads and used it to rend the very heavens. Atisha did not do this. It wasn’t her.

It wasn’t her fault. 

But she still has to make it right.


	10. Chapter 10

Sometimes when nights at Skyhold are too quiet and too still, Atisha dreams of him. The moments where he smiled were few and far between, but she recalls each one in crystal clarity. Sometimes, she suspects her recreations are not hers at all but rather the influence of the things that lurk in the fade. But truly, she does not care. She remembers Suledin at his brightest. Smiling as he fletched an arrow, laughing as Atisha’s feet stuck in mud, the twinkle in his eyes as he stole sweets from her plate. 

When she dreams of him, Atisha wakes bitter with resentment.

As a child she had resented Suledin’s constant watch. He was a prison warden, a shackle, keeping her from having fun or making friends with the other children. As she aged, she began to understand his necessity. The amount of assassins he had disposed of throughout the years is boggling to think on. He was always there. A protector. A friend. Suledin was hardly good for a laugh when she was younger, but as she aged and grew wiser Atisha began to understand him.

And maybe cherish him a little if she’s being honest with herself.

She hates being honest with herself. 

Atisha dreams of Suledin stealing her tea, eyes full of mirth, as he dances away teasing her into jumping for the cup. His mouth is sticky sweet with laughter and honey. He sings and hums and sneaks around her to snag her sweetbread, dipping it in the cup before stuffing into his mouth. She watches stray tea dribble down his chin and cannot place the ache in her heart. Suledin flops down into his chair again, victorious, and hands her back her tea. And he is so real. If she just reaches out, maybe, just maybe, the scars of his vallaslin will be solid under her fingertips. Maybe the Conclave, and the Inquisition, and Uncle’s war on the veil will all be a terrible demon-caused nightmare. She wants that. She wants this to be reality and that world to be the dream.

Atisha knows better.

Just because you want something, doesn’t mean you will get it. 

She dreams of him teaching her archery. Remembers the razor focus in his blue-black eyes, and the furrow of his brow, and the way his breath has left her skin hot and cold all at once as he helped her understand how to hold the bow. ‘It is like water’ he had told her. ‘Hold like you are a spring river, feel the flow of your strength, breathe, release.’ She remembers the smug look on his face when her arrow planted itself in her target. The way her chest had swelled when he ruffled her hair and told her ‘good job’. And he had meant it.

Atisha does not like to sleep on nights when Skyhold is quiet. She does not want to be haunted by a man who she cannot ever see again.

Sometimes, Atisha dreams of things that would have happened. She dreams of children with fluffy dark hair and gold eyes. She dreams of his smile. She had always loved his smile, the way it crinkled the soft skin around his eyes. He was radiant. The most beautiful of the Dales for sure. She cannot imagine any of his children not having a smile like that. Not even in dreams where anything is possible. Atisha dreams of Suledin’s thumbprint carved carefully above her left hip in gold vallaslin. Father had always wanted that. Suledin had come from a good house, it was always the will of the courts. In her youth, she had been stubborn and foolish and hadn’t understood that she resented the engagement not because it was Suledin. It was because she wanted him to feel the same. Not to follow her on orders. Not to join her house on orders. She dreams that he wanted her and it hurts, because Atisha is honest with herself. This is the path he was given. His gods told him to. She is just another order to follow. And it killed him.

She killed him.

On quiet nights in Skyhold, the elven ambassador can be seen walking the battlements. Like a ghost. The soldiers on patrols know to let her have her silence, her peace. It is a rare thing these days. Sometimes, Atisha can be found in the gardens at night, wandering aimlessly. It is nights like these that she is not seen the next day. The Commander says to leave it, no need to check her quarters, she’s fine. So, the soldiers leave it. Though, sometimes, a few of them swear they can hear talking in her chambers.

Sometimes, Atisha prays. How odd, a god-to-be praying.

Suledin, Falon’din enasal enaste.


	11. Chapter 11

His name is Suledin Dar’Felas’An, and he is one of many who call Dirthamen father. He is the son of a god, power flowing in his veins, but his magic is weak. His brothers and sisters have always had more talent than he. Suledin will never be the heir to the title Dirthamen. But there are other ways to serve his house. His bloodline is rich in magic, and from youth his father has raised him strong. A hunter. The kind of hunter for whom the abilities of his prey will become irrelevant. And he does his father proud.

His name is Suledin, and his skill catches his Uncle’s eye. They are all his aunts and uncles, the other gods. It could have been Jun, or even Falon’din, but it was not. It was the head. The All-Father. Uncle Elgar’nan watches Suledin compete, and decides. This boy will be part of House Sabrae eventually. And it just so happens that his uncle has a young daughter, Eralath, and another on the way. 

Eralath will not be the next All-Father. This has already been known. She is promised to Andruil. But the unborn child, that child will inherit. And so Suledin becomes a guardian at the young age of ten. He is taken into house Sabrae, and trained in the Vir Elgar. His father continues his lessons as well. He decides then, he will be the best guardian possible, and he will love that child no matter what they are like. He will do it for his father. For his family. For House Dar’Felas’An.

Her name is Atisha, and he thinks that is cruel. To name the heir of war ‘peace’ is an unkindness that sits in his stomach wrong. But the babe is the most peaceful child he has ever seen. She has her father’s flame orange hair, and all she ever wants is to sleep. Suledin holds her before Elgar’nan can, and he vows to never let anyone take anything from her. He will carve the world up and give it to her piece by bloody piece if he has to. If she wills it. He will be her Guardian before anything else. Not even the gods can stop him now. Atisha is his in a way that no one can have. Courts be damned. Orders be damned. This tiny fragile thing has no idea what this world would do to her. 

He will not let her name be in vain.

His name is Suledin, and it is her first word.

Atisha is so gentle, he is lucky to have patience wished upon him. She shies from blades, and magic. Much preferring the company of the kitchen mouser, or the stable Harts. Suledin is patient, enduring, the ever. And he allows her these weaknesses. The first time he kills for her, Suledin is nearly fifteen. He does not stop killing for her. He will not stop killing for her. He brings to her a kitten, one of many she will have. But her first is a gift from him. He encourages this softness, and is sure he disappoints his father. He never had this luxury. He will not take it from her. Not when this child looks at him like he is the world. And he is. Her parents are too busy. She is raised by elders, and ladies, and, well, him. And he will not let them make her like him. They want to harden this child, make her the warrior her father is. Suledin disagrees. What need does she have for anger and hatred when he will do it for her? Why bloody her chubby little fingers when his hands are soaked? He does not leave her side. He does not allow these teachers to instill hatred in her. He sweeps her up and plays with her and lets her sing and run and shout. And Atisha does all these things and more. She is so creative and unique and her magic is so delicate and warm. And she loves to pulls pranks. 

At least he will have experience with children when he is called to his duty, he thinks.

He hopes his children will inherit her gentle open mouthed smile.

He prays they are nothing like him.

His name is Suledin, and he dies before he lets the world take her gentleness away. But what he does not know, is he is all that holds the Sun’s Wrath back.


	12. Chapter 12

“Princess Sabrae,”

Josephine addresses Atisha like she is shemlen royalty. It makes the wilds in her blood pace with annoyance. Her teeth are sharp, her eyes sharp, her nails sharp, she is not some plussed up frilly quick-blood princess. She is First of the Sun. She is more. Josephine must see the way she hardens, because the ambassador quickly backpeddles. 

“Ah, my apologies, Lady Atisha, the Inquisition humbly requests aid from the Dales. Perhaps in the form of healers? We are in dire need of skilled mages and apothecaries, and who better to send aid than the Dalish? Your people’s magic is well known after all.”

The title is still raw and rough, it is still a human title, but she allows it. Josephine means only to show respect and kindness. Atisha should remember this woman advocated for her, and for her people. But would she be able to convince Sylaise and Ghilan’nain to send their people? She is First, not the Sun yet. She chews the thought over for a moment, Josephine looking at her expectantly. Finally, Atisha gives her answer.

“My sister is wife to the First of the Huntress, and my cousin First of Fen’Harel. If it is healers you need, Lady Ambassador, then you shall have them.”

Atisha is shocked at how calm she sounds. Suledin would have been proud. Josephine smiles, it is a lovely smile. A well trained smile. “Very good, thank you.” Then Josephine turns to leave. Atisha uncaps her inkwell mentally preparing to win her sister’s assistance. Eralath is very difficult to please. Mahanon’s assistance will be easier. After all, Fen’harel himself is with the Inquisition. If not in name, then certainly in House assistance sent straight from the Dales. Truly, she does not even need to write Mahanon, but she must keep up appearances. No one can no what her uncle has done. 

Suddenly, Josephine turns on her heel. Atisha stills where she was shuffling for a clean parchment and meets the ambassador’s eyes. 

“Lady Atisha,” she begins looking far too curious for Atisha’s comfort. “Do your people,” Josephine pauses for a moment looking for words. Atisha waits patiently. Finally, Josephine decides how she wants to ask. “How related are your god’s families? I mean to say, you call, for example, Sylaise your aunt. But is she really? Your aunt I mean. You just said your sister is married to her heir, so does that mean your sister is married to your close cousin?”

Alisha blinks. Shemlen are so strange and this too is strange.

“No, we are not usually very related. Many gods adopt children or have many children with a wide array of household members. In this case, Aunt or Uncle, is more like a title. Like My Lady or Emperor. It is simply an honorific meant to acknowledge we share the same fate, and to respect that fate. In fact, I am not even related to the majority of the gods, if any. My father was an adopted child of the previous Elgar’nan. It is quite common to adopt a child who has the skills necessary to rule. Of course, we want the gods to be of blood, but the role is more important than the lineage filling it.”

And what she doesn’t say is that if you do not have what it takes, you do not survive godhood.

Today Atisha has learned a disturbing thing about the shemlen. Their higher families do not use aunt or uncle or cousin as a title. It is... literal. Her blood runs cold. Josephine nods at this answer, jotting down a few quick notes on her clipboard. 

“I see. I think I can admire that. A culture who hopes for a good leader to be born, but recognizes when one is not.” She murmurs thoughtfully. 

“Josephine, am I to understand that when humans or dwarves of higher birth use such familiar terms, they mean it like they do all share blood?” Atisha asks slowly. 

“Why, yes. But usually marriages in such families have strict rules about the degree of relations. It is to keep power in the family.”

Atisha grimaces. 

“Of course such arrangements are usually only among the highest of the nobles and royals.”

The thought makes her stomach churn. 

“Oh.” Atisha replies very dumbly. 

“And usually those arrangements are made at birth of the children.” Josephine goes on to say, tapping the feather of her quill against her chin. And that, Atisha understands. 

“We have such arrangements, but they are made before the birth of the child. Usually upon pregnancy. My sister was promised to Andruil when her mother was first discovered to be with her. The gods tend to fight over who gets what, the earlier you stake your claim the better.”

Josephine’s brow furrows with confusion. “And how can they decide the sex of the child and who shall marry who?”

Atisha can’t help but laugh. “What an odd question,” she giggles. “Is sex an important thing to your people then?”

“Why yes! Very! The whole point of a noble marriage is to continue the bloodline is it not?”

“Oh, our people are very different, Josephine.” Atisha says, voice ringing with mirth. Like bells. Or chimes in the wind. “Children are nice, of course they are. But like I said, my people hope for one of the blood who can do the job. We do not expect it. We do not breed for it. Sex is irrelevant. If you are to join a house, you are to join a house. Marriage is simply a contract, an agreement to become that house. A wife might be a lover or a mother, or she might be a warrior or healer or politician. It simply means you serve the other members of your house and protect them. Maybe you raise a child who is not your own for another household member who cannot. But we hardly expect our children to breed like chattle. They are the blood of gods. They shall be treated as such.”

Josephine blinks. 

“For your people, an arranged marriage is like a career choice.” She comments. Atisha supposes she can see that. “It’s more like an acquisition of resources. A child of Falon’din may be born with certain skills inherited from their father that could benefit a house. Our parents still look at our abilities and help guide us on a path. It’s a gamble really. Maybe my father looks at a woman in Ghilain’nain’s house and hopes for a shifter child, so he claims the pregnancy. The child may come out an apothecary, not a shifter, but that child will still be a Sabrae. And we will still be able to use the skills of an apothecary, and of course, hope that she should choose to pass on her shifter bloodline and maybe house Sabrae will eventually have a shifter. If not, no loss of ours.”

“Oh.” Josephine says this time.

“Oh indeed.” Alisha agrees.

“That is...quite complex. But I can see why that would be. It just seems,” Josephine struggles.

“Very odd?” Atisha supplies with a smile. Josephine nods. “Surely, it cannot be odder than Orlais.” Atisha says smartly. Josephine laughs prettily. She does everything prettily. The very picture of the perfect lady. “It certainly must be just as complex when it comes to your family trees.” Josephine says back with a wide smile. “Oh of course, it would not be a foreign noble family without complexity.” Atisha tells her. They both laugh. When Atisha talks with Josephine like this she forgets the others avoid her. She forgets that she represents everything that the humans hate. The heathen elven woman they fear is just a person when it’s Josephine. She is not sure if it is the Ambassador’s intention to make her feel this way, or if it is a side effect of Josephine being Josephine. She doesn’t much care. Josephine’s smile softens, eyes crinkling in the corners, and that is genuine. 

“Well, I have taken up enough of your time, and I am sure you have a great many relatives to petition. I will leave you to your work.”

Atisha nods in agreement, smile wide and unashamed as Josephine leaves her office.


	13. Chapter 13

“Uncle,” Atisha hisses. It is a summons. This is the only place it is safe to be true, to shed the lie. Solas slips into her dream easily. The energy of the Fade flowing around him like a cape. “Did you hear him? Thom?” She asks. He nods. “What are we to do? We cannot allow this to happen. This injustice. These Wardens know not what they meddle in.” Atisha sounds a bit more desperate now. Why isn’t he saying anything? Why isn’t he upset? The Grey Wardens, what they’re trying to do, it’s wrong. They seek to hunt down, to eliminate, any gods who slumber. And the world was once full of so many gods. Gods of Avaar, and Tevinter, and even gods of those before the Qun. They want to hunt down their kin. 

“We do nothing.”

Solas tells her. If it were not for the bitter anger in his voice, she would have protested. Instead, she waits. When he speaks again, his voice is that if the Wolf. Crackling, splaying, spreading into the sound of every Wolf that ever bore the title. 

“Da’len, do not forget what we seek to recover. Do not forget that as spirits are reborn, and rivers cut the earth into a new shape, and the moon will shed her skin, so too will gods rise and fall. Our family is safe, but we are waning. We cannot focus on these Wardens. We must continue to gather strength. We must clip the Veil.”

She knows he is right. Without an end to this false era, there can be no truth to this world. Without their spirit companions, all the living are empty. And the gods, crippled.

“Hahren, ma’lin, surely we can do more than sit in shadows and allow this world to be torn apart. What good does saving the Beyond do if we take all that’s left of it from here? Where does it anchor, if not within us?” 

He considers. 

“We cannot risk corruption. Blight and gods do not go together. What would you have me do? Follow them into the Deep? Send the last true people to their demise? This weapon is out of its masters’ control and it has gone on too long, but it was designed to kill us. We are not pure enough to stop Tevinter’s poison. Not without the Beyond.” 

And he is right. He is right, but it is not enough. There is no greater threat to her father, her family, her people, than the Blight. 

“I won’t accept that.”

Solas arcs a brow, head tilting as he beholds her. His niece, all fire and rage. She was not this way before. Not when Suledin was here to protect her. 

“Who protects the people, and the world they would inhabit, if not the gods? We must impose on the Inquisitor to focus on the Grey Wardens. What happens when they slay all the sleepers in the deep? Then do they realize a whole country of gods exists? And when they assault the Dales, spreading their infection. Salting the earth with their Blight. What then, Hahren? Am I to stand idly by and watch these fools with their false ideas and their false god march on the place I love? No, I am First of the Sun and I will not allow them to assault our people next. We must end this. There is too much at risk.”

She really is his daughter, Solas thinks as he watches the dream, the Fade, circle around her. Spirits of Valor and Command framing her like knights in armor. And if they will follow, perhaps she is truly meant to inherit. She demands. She demands of this world, of the people, and even of her betters. She will be an All-Father to behold. If the dismembering of the world doesn’t kill her. 

“I will express my concerns to the Inquisitor. Fervently. You work on that Warden. Get him to agree with you. If he tells the Inquisitor that the Wardens’ plan is beyond perverse, we will be marching on Weisshaupt within the week.” Solas tells her. Atisha agrees. And all she has to do is convince a man who believes with all his soul that killing gods is right to suddenly change his heart. She can do it. She has to do it. She has to protect the Dales. It’s what Suledin would have done.


	14. Chapter 14

“Can I buy your next round?”

Atisha watches Thom startle from where he is hunched over nursing a flagon of something foul smelling. The warden tilts his head towards her and hums an affirmative. She takes that as an invitation for company, which is surely wasn’t, but doesn’t much care. So, she settles on the stool next to him and orders a mug of some kind of malt. Atisha hopes it won’t kill her. It smells like it will.

“Where’s your shadow? Haven’t seen him since I got here.” Thom comments. It’s bitter. So that’s how this is going to be. He worked one job for her father when she was young at the tail end of the Blight, and suddenly he thinks he can dig like that. “He’s dead. Conclave.” She replies, just as bitter. She can be just as unpleasant. He stiffens, takes a long swig. “Damn shame. He was a good archer.” Atisha takes her own swig. It won’t kill her, but she isn’t necessarily happy with the taste. “A better man.” She replies. They sit like that, quiet for a few more moments. Atisha sips at her drink. Thom finishes his mug and waves another over. 

“Why are you here Thom?”

He looks up at her in confusion.

“What are you on about? You were at the meeting. The wardens disappeared, they’re making plans to assault the deep roads, you know why I’m here.”

“No, why aren’t you with them. Why are you here?”

His mug is refilled. He turns to fully look at her, eyes inquisitive. “I’ve met self proclaimed gods who are good men.” He replies. A simple reply that hints at something deeper. “You mean my father.” She replies. “I mean your father.” He agrees. They both take a drink. “Killing good men hasn’t stopped wardens before.” She muses. He grunts in response. A sound full of annoyance and distaste. “Why are you so different than your brothers and sisters in arms? What brings Warden Thom Rainier running to the Inquisition to tattle on his order? Why, Thom, are you here?” Atisha presses now. 

“Maybe I want to do better.” He hisses. She doesn’t quite buy it. 

“Do you hear that same Calling? Does he sing in your head like you say he does the others? How am I to know Corypheus didn’t plant you here to harm us? Do you even know what he has taken from all of us?”

Thom pointedly drinks a hefty few mouthfuls. 

“I am here, Ambassador, to drink the song away. And to, hopefully, have a night of peace. Change the subject.” It’s a warning as much as it is a plea. And how ironic. A night of peace. She can’t help the smile creeping on her face. 

“What?” He asks warily. 

“It’s nothing, you wouldn’t get it.”

“Why not?”

“Do you speak elvhen?”

“No.”

“Then you would not understand it.”

“Hmm.”

They both take a drink. 

“You make miserable company, Ambassador.” He finally says. She grins. “You know, where I’m from people don’t generally speak so bluntly to me.” She tells him. He scrubs a hand over his eyes and groans. “I’m sure they don’t.” She pulls at a loose thread on her shawl. The silence is thick and uncomfortable. She looks at this man and he is exhausted, gaunt, pale. A shadow of the man who her father had paid to keep the Dales darkspawn free. 

“What does it cost?” She asks in an almost whisper. Thom finishes the second flagon with grace. “A lot, a little, depends on who you ask.” It’s not an answer. “I’m asking you.” She tells him. He sighs. “It gave me more than it cost.” And it is the first honest thing he has said to her. “Can I tell you something?” Atisha asks, heart fluttering with nervousness. She has to convince him. And it’s an honest thing. She won’t be lying. “You’re going to anyways, aren’t you?” Thom mutters. “Have you ever wondered why there are no Grey Wardens hailing from the Dalish royal family, and few from the Dales entirely?”

And he has wondered that. Always been told it’s because the elves keep to themselves. Didn’t question beyond that. He’s interested now. Atisha has his full attention, her eyes glitter gold in the candlelight. Glitter with something hard and sad. He thinks for a moment how like her father she looks now that she’s older. Strange. 

“The path you have chosen, the taint you have taken into yourself. It is the only thing in this world that can completely and truly kill a god.” She tells him. The color drains from his face. “Grey Wardens can survive the taint by drinking the blood of a god who has fallen to the poison. But we of the gods, we cannot ever survive the taint. It doesn’t just corrupt. Thom, the Blight is designed to destroy the very soul of a god. What you are, what you have chosen to be, it is something I nor any of my family can ever be. Your people are the only ones who can keep me and my family safe from that darkness. And now, you are the only man standing between me and the Blight. The only man to keep his oath.” 

It is a lot to put onto him. But none of it is a lie necessarily. Currently wardens are her greatest threat, but this one has to know and understand why.

“Can I tell you something else, Thom?”

He slowly nods. 

“I am frightened to see what comes when the Wardens serve the Blight.”

And she watches the gears turn. “Why would a darkspawn want to send wardens to prevent future blights. I had been trying to understand why his agents, his song, bid us to hunt the old gods. But he wants to be the god the only god, and to take Thedas,” Thom begins wording what Atisha and her uncle have seen from the start.

“He has to eliminate the Dales.” She finishes. 

Horror sets in. The unspoken understanding of what that means sets in. How would the venatori or red templars know who was of the Dales and who was just an elf? They wouldn’t. It would be a slaughter to ensure no survivors. And the Wardens would not only facilitate it, they would be the frontline army. Warden mages and demons, and any non-mage wardens would be fodder to fuel spells. A full assault. Conquer the Dales, and that puts you on the doorstep to Orlais and Fereldan. You can move Tevinter troops through no problem. And you would have plenty of food for red lyrium.

“Maker’s balls.” He breathes in shock. “Indeed.” Atisha replies. “Thom, I need your help.” She does her best to sound small but confident. And it works. By Andruil it works, and her prey is snared. “Of course. Anything to stop that from happening. I’ll speak to the Inquisitor in the morning.”

“Thank you.”


	15. Chapter 15

Commander Cullen hands her the report, as well as the enemy correspondence recovered from Uncle Dirthamen’s abandoned temple. The report is average. Venatori and red templars desecrating her people’s scattered holy shrines. Not unusual. What is unusual is the orders they were under, she had been told. 

‘The foci is in the staff. Do not attempt to remove it from the staff. Recover the staff and bring it back to me. Do not harm the temple. It is not yours to harm. Do not disturb the bodies that rest there. Walk with respect. I don’t know how many time I have to tell you fools this. If I have to repeat myself again, it will be over your bodies.’

The words are simple, they could have been written by anyone. Atisha knows better. Cullen watches the reports fall from her hands, fluttering the air before gently settling on the ground. She looks up at him, wide-eyed. And suddenly, Cullen is reminded of how young Atisha is. How unfair it is she must be here in the middle of this war.

“It was...Dirthamen’s shrine?” She whispers. “Are you sure?” The color has drained from her face. She keeps glancing down to the venatori orders, and back up to him noticeably shaken. Mouth opening and closing like she can’t breathe.

“Yes, it was.” He tells her. He doesn’t know why this matters, but it does. 

“And this was the only paper recovered?” The words are fast, panicked, unbelieving.

“Yes.”

And he sees her tremble. Atisha trembling. What an odd thought. She didn’t even flinch at Haven. But one letter, and suddenly she’s shaking like a tree in an autumn breeze. So young, and sad, and well hurt.

“Cullen,” her voice cracks, she licks her lips and continues. “Have there been reports of an elven mage among the Ventatori? He would have dark hair. Dalish.” Maker, this has her nearly weeping to ask, he thinks. “No, there’s been no such sighting. Atisha are you okay?” He doesn’t mean to soften his voice quite so much, but it doesn’t go unappreciated.

“No,” She answers immediately. Because she isn’t. Because that is Suledin’s handwriting. Because Suledin is dead. Because if that is his handwriting and he is dead, she does not want to know what wrote this. What is wearing him. Because he would come back for her. He would never send shemlen into his father’s shrine. And he would never stand by the side of a creature like Corypheus. He would come back. He would. He promised. He would never leave her side, not for day or night or any god. Or false god.

“I’ll, uh, tell the men to keep an eye out for a man of that description. If he is spotted, you will be the first to know.” Cullen says as he begins scooping up papers. 

“Thank you, Commander.”

They both pretend she isn’t crying.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letters exchanged between Atisha and Mahanon after the Conclave and one letter from her Uncle

‘Cousin, 

I have heard from my Father that you live, and are ignoring my letters. Please, Atisha, be reasonable. All of the Dales wait with bated breath. Is it true? Does the Fade truly break the heavens where you are? We all see the emerald sky, but only you are at the Wound. Tell us what happened. Tell me what happened. 

-Your Cousin, Mahanon.’

‘Mahanon, 

The Wound bleeds of the Beyond. Spirits and demons walk from the open cuts like it is a door. Where the shemlen temple stood, rocks defy the earth and instead dance the heavens. It is beautiful and terrible. I am very frightened of what will come of this. 

-Atisha’

‘Atisha,

By all the Creators and all the stars, I did not think you would respond. Are you safe there? Are you and Suledin well? I shall send a caravan to retrieve you immediately, just give the word. In a time like this, family should come together. We must decide how the Dales will respond as kin.

-Patiently, Mahanon.’

‘Mahanon,

I am staying. Leaving now casts an image of guilt upon the Dales. As for how I fare, I am alive and recovering from my wounds. Suledin did not survive the sky opening. Enclosed in this letter is a lock of my hair. I was unable to retrieve his body. Will you see that Uncle Dirthamen gets it? Tell him I am sorry, I failed him.

-Ir abelas, Dirthamen. Suledin, el’vhen’nan, Falon’din enasal enaste. Dar’da’lin, Atisha.’

‘Atisha,

A funeral was held at the capital. All the Dales wept. The earth shook with the Dirge. 

-Mahanon’

‘My niece,

There is nothing to forgive. He lived as he died, serving. Thank you for putting our hearts at ease.

-Dirthamen.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of my poor elvhen
> 
> I am sorry Dirthamen. Suledin, our heart, Falon’din grant blessing. Your little relative (lit blood. I’m going for niece here) 
> 
> Basically an apology and a signature.


	17. Chapter 17

Gifts begin flooding into Haven from the Dales shortly after Atisha asks Leliana to send a thick envelope to the Dales. Gifts of servants, and wagons of flowers and wines, weapons and armor all fitted for Atisha, dresses and riding clothes, rich cheeses and dried meats, apothecary supplies, potions and perfumes. All of them bearing the flag of the Dales. All of the caravans accompanied by men and women in black and grey with tinkling windchimes sewn into the sleeves. 

Josephine is beside herself trying to find space for all the gifts, and Leliana overwhelmed checking the safety of them. But Haven needs for the supplies, and Atisha seems indifferent to giving the majority of them to the Inquisition. The servants she keeps, but not out of a desire to. 

“What’s the occasion?” Cullen asks Atisha one day as the woman is sorting through the hundreds of letters she has received. 

“My marriage.” She replies quietly. He watches her toss letters into piles organized by wax seal. She frowns at the ones stamped with a feather. 

“I’m sorry?” Cullen replies. He certainly didn’t see a wedding, and Atisha seemed to be alone. 

“The son of Dirthamen was promised to me before I was born. He was to be the first of my house. He died in the Conclave.” Her mouth runs dry, voice scratching with grief. “Dirthamen was promised, and so the promise stays. The first of my house is dead, but the promise is kept. So, I’m married.” It is all very mechanical and matter of fact. Atisha swallows her grief down, keeps her voice steady. Mythal’enaste, it is the hardest thing she has done since she wrote the last letter.

“To a dead man.” Cullen says incredulous. 

“Not the wedding I pictured, no.” She replies bitterly. She won’t even open the feather envelopes. The sun sealed ones with the gold wax, those she opens. And the blue wax with a wolves head. The rest are tossed aside, careless. He watches her scan through what he assumes are empty congratulatory words. She tosses it aside. Cullen hears metal clank when the envelope hits the table. Coin maybe? Jewelry? His curiousity is in genuine.

“Don’t look at me like that.” She hisses. He realizes he has been staring. “I don’t want your pity. And I certainly don’t want theirs.” She gestures to the letters as she speaks. “All these gifts, all this game. It won’t bring him back. His father sent his servants. He sent me his son’s promised servants. What am I to do with servants of a dead man? I don’t know those people. But I am now their Lady and I am now responsible for them. How can they look upon me without seeing that I lived and he didn’t? And you and Leliana look at me like I am the one who died.” She laughs. Nails on a mirror. Choking. She slams her hands down on the table, then shakily runs them through her disheveled locks. “Like I am the one who died.” She repeats in a shaky whisper. Like a prayer almost. It makes his blood run cold.

He is bad with grief. Does not know what to do with his own. Doesn’t drink or engage in vices and so he lives at the mercy of his grief. How to comfort a woman who thinks herself divine? Who does he tell her to go to? Cullen rubs the back of his neck nervously, pinching the skin between two fingers. He wants to say something. He ought to. But- his thoughts are interrupted as she laughs then sighs deeply.

“How could you ever understand? You shemlen live such short lives, you wouldn’t understand. I shouldn’t do this to you. You know not what you do. You are like children, never understanding, and I should remember that. Forgive me, Commander. This is mine to endure. He is mine to endure. Tell Josephine she can have the gifts for Haven’s coffers but anything with these symbols,” She holds up the wolf head, the feather, and the sun. “Go through me first.” She finishes. She peels the wax seals off the letters and hands them to him. 

Cullen feels both insulted and relieved to have the pressure of comforting her off his shoulders. She is right though, he does not understand. He doesn’t understand a people who could put their princess through such grief. She was suffering from her companion’s demise enough. They didn’t have to rub salt in by declaring her a dead man’s wife. To him, it is beyond cruel, it is unacceptable. 

“You should go,” Atisha tells him very quietly, and Cullen gets the distinct impression the trembling of her shoulders is more swallowed grief about to claw its awful way back up. 

“I’m sorry.” He tells her blankly, and he leaves her to her office in the Chantry.


	18. Chapter 18

“I need to ask you for a favor.” Cassandra says and it is awkward and uncomfortable. The woman shifts her weight and fusses with the hem of her sleeve, looking anywhere but at Atisha. Atisha finishes pressing soil down on the base of the new royal elfroot she was planting along the back wall of Skyhold’s gardens and hums to acknowledge she is listening. Cassandra is still. Atisha brushes dirt off her trousers. It is quiet for a moment before the elf speaks. “I’m listening.” It’s said with singsong annoyance that Cassandra hasn’t made her move yet. 

Atisha likes Cassandra. The woman is usually direct and honest and beautifully brave. It frustrates her to see such hesitation. Hesitation does not suit the Seeker.

“I, yes, well, do you, hmm.” Cassandra also does not usually slip on her words. This concerns Atisha immediately and immensely. So, she wipes off her hands on the hem of her shirt and straightens up, full attention on Cassandra. 

“What’s wrong?” And both women are shocked by the genuine concern ringing in her voice. 

Cassandra breathes deep and exhales the words quick.

“I need to know if you have any talent in healing magic.”

That’s it? That’s the big question? Atisha nearly giggles, but sees the strict expression on Cassandra’s face and thinks better. She still feels her cheeks flush with color, though. 

“Cassandra, back home they say only the First of Sylaise can rival me when it comes to such magic. I am a born healer. Why, are you injured?” Atisha is a bit confused, because Cassandra looks well. She looks more than well. She looks healthy and spry. A quick wash of magic over Cassandra confirms her suspicions that the woman is, in fact, well. 

Cassandra breathes a sigh of relief, “Thank the Maker,” she says mostly to herself and refocuses her amber gaze onto Atisha. “It isn’t for me, but it does require a certain level of discretion.” 

“I’ll be discreet.” Atisha replies. Cassandra nods approvingly and gestures for her to follow. The elven woman removes her gardening gloves and sets them down next to a pot on the way out of Skyhold’s gardens. She wonders who could be in such dire straights as to need her. Sylaise had sent healers, and the Inquisition had circle mages as well as good apothecaries. There haven’t been any battles lately, and surely her Uncle or Dorian knew enough of the body to set broken bones or repair broken flesh from any training mishaps. Her ears burn red with curiosity. 

Cassandra leads her down the courtyard, past the tavern. They begin climbing the stairs up the battlements. How mysterious, Atisha thinks. Maybe Cole is injured? No, her uncle would handle that. They approach the Commander’s offices. Maybe a prisoner is injured and needs tended to quietly? Cassandra fishes a key from her pocket. It makes the door groan a heavy thunk as the lock slides free. Cassandra ushers her in quickly and turns around to re-lock the heavy door.

Oh, Atisha thinks. The Commander does not look well. He is slumped in his office chair, staring up at the ceiling. If it weren’t for his fingers tapping on the chair’s arm she would think him unconscious. He is pallor, but strangely pink in the high points and under his eyes. She reaches her magic out tentatively, this man was a Templar once and she doesn’t need the sting of severed magic. Barely a brush, but by Jun, he is hotter than the Forge. 

“What happened?” She whispers. He feels wrong. Distant and heavy and empty except in hardened places. 

“It is lyrium withdrawals. Usually the potion works to keep the process steady, but last night he worsened. I want to exercise every option before we consider giving him lyrium once more.” Cassandra tells her. Cullen groans a pained sound. A dying deer. Atisha practically flies across the room at that sound. Her fingers are chilled and on his forehead before Cassandra can take her next breath. And then the rage hits. Atisha whips her head around to look at, through, Cassandra. 

“Last night?” She snarls. Suddenly Cassandra understands stories of savage and feral elves. Atisha is all teeth, glowing eyes gleaming at her in the candle-lit din of the office. Her voice is practically electric. “You let him suffer like this for nearly a day before you even thought to find someone?” She demands. Cassandra feels her stomach twist with guilt. 

“Get out.” Atisha orders, and Cassandra does not know why she does. 

“Be gentle with her.” Cullen mumbles, throat swollen and scratching and body tensing with pain. He is a coil of agony. Atisha will correct that first. Her magic flies from her chest, deep and green, and digs roots into his pain. She spools her energy, cooling and electric and it washes through him like wind through a tree. It rips. It soothes. He exhales a breath he did not know he was holding. “I asked her not to.” He confesses when he can take his next breath.

“You, Cullen, are an idiot and a fool.” Atisha snaps back. 

Yeah, he’ll take that. She’s right. This could kill him. He knows that. He opens his mouth to speak and suddenly the elf is behind him crawling into the chair and splaying her legs around him to straddle his back. “What?” He can’t form the sentence his addled brain is searching for. And quickly, deftly, her fingers are pushing and pulling at points throughout his back. She hums a song he doesn’t know, but it is a kind gesture nonetheless. 

“You are suffering not from lack of the lyrium, but from the condensing of it in your blood. It seeks other lyrium, and now there is none to hold, so it desires to feed on you.”

“You talk like it is alive.” He croaks.

“It is.” She confirms.

He ignores that in favor of focusing on how her fingers seem to break the pain in him into pieces. She coaxes his muscle to let her dig her hands in, soft electric shocks that he barely notices. Atisha feels the curve of his spine turn wrong, and she corrects that too. The body must flow, or poisons are trapped. She pushes and pulls and demands he fight. She’s halfway down his spine when he notices his fever has broken. Cullen’s brain refocuses and he notices bloody shards of what looks to be glass sitting in a pile next to the chair, and Atisha tosses another into the pile, humming all the while.

“What is that? What are you doing?” Templar instincts kick in, what is this magic?

“That is lyrium. Your lyrium.” She says matter of factly. 

Cullen stares at the pile as he feels her hands coax the shard out of his skin. It doesn’t hurt. How come it doesn’t hurt? Focus, focus, oh, she’s healing him as she extracts. The lyrium is a needle and her healing magic the thread. Numbing him, cooling him, extract, repair, sing softly. And her singing is even magic infused. The process is slow, and he is very aware that she is too close for comfort, but being out of pain weighs heavier and so he chooses to focus on ignoring how untoward this would be if anyone walked in. 

He feels her hands slide up his back her magic probing along for any more deposits. “You are like a mine.” She mumbles between her singing. Then her hand freezes above his left shoulder. “May I?” She asks. And truly she could ask him to do a handstand and sing the chant in ladies stockings right now and he would say yes. Anything, anything, to cut down this pain. He grunts an affirmative, not trusting his voice to not crack, and her hands are on his arm. Sliding and pulling the familiar tide of her magic- familiar already, how rusty is he getting? -extracting more and more solidified lyrium. No wonder old templars go mad. No wonder they barely live that long. A few minutes later she has finished his left arm and with a hum moves to his right. 

“You are lucky.” Her voice is lower, deeper, when she speaks. Something in him follows it. “Your Circle healers would not know how to help you. You would drink or die. You are lucky Commander, because drinking is death.” Such hard anger. Such composed fury. “Your Chantry wants you to die.” And he does not agree with that, but he lets her have her anger. Many young recruits feel the same about the lyrium. He’s heard it before, and does not believe it. “Your god asks more of you than I would ever ask of my people.” Atisha muses sadly as she does another once over and pulls herself out of the chair. She crouches in front of him, shoulders stiff, and begins gathering the shards. “I would never ask this of you.” Atisha says and it sounds like glass breaking. She tears part of her sleeve off to gather the hardened lyrium in. Cullen does not know what to say to her. She ties the makeshift bag off and looks up at him through her hair. 

“Cullen, I would not do this to you.”

Her voice cracks. There is sorrow, pure snow-white sorrow, in her anger now. And a part of her is begging. ‘Please, believe me.’ He does. The Dalish don’t take lyrium. He know this. He thought it was for lack of trade routes. But the horror set pale on her face tells him to swallow down what he believes for a moment and listen. The part of him that tells him every night ‘you were a good man before Kinloch Hold, you can be a good man again’ keeps him quiet. 

“I do not know you.” Atisha admits as she stands. “You are not my people, my blood. You are my greatest fear within these walls. I do not know you,” she repeats it with force. “But I cannot think of any man, human or not, who deserves such a fate.” The shards tinkle with her trembling fist. “Cullen, if this happens again, you come to me. Immediately. I am not asking. I am telling you, I am ordering you, you will come to me. No one deserves to suffer what you, for some insane reason, thought you had to do alone. I do not care that I fear you. I do not care that I do not know you. Know me, know this about me, I will not let you suffer. I will not allow it.” And though her voice trembles, and her hands shake, he knows it is from anger. Anger that he let it get this bad. Anger that he took lyrium in the first place. Anger that she didn’t know he was struggling. 

And it feels good that someone does care. A bit odd that someone happens to be a mage. But good. 

“Very well.” He slowly agrees and slurs the words a little. Slowly, because he is suddenly aware that he is exhausted. All the tension has left his body at once, and it is like he has stepped off the training field and he is ready to collapse. Her gaze softens. Alisha brushes cool magic over his forehead and sighs. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped. Let me get you a blanket, you need to rest.” And Cullen doesn’t remember if he protested but he is certain she magicked him to sleep. He remembers waking under his own blanket, likely retrieved by one sneaky elf from his bed-loft.


	19. Chapter 19

Atisha has never seen a Qunari before. The man is scarred, and his voice shakes the delicate bones in her chest, and his horns are wide as the halla. And he is tall. So very tall. She thought Warden Thom was tall, this man is on a whole new level. 

“You gonna stare all day?” The qunari asks, flicking his steel-grey iris towards her. Atisha feels her cheeks burn. An apology held behind her teeth as she quickly looks away. Thom is laughing by the blacksmith’s, barely concealing his amusement into one gloved fist. She glares at him and bares her teeth. His eyes sparkle. Atisha hopes she looks angry. She is sure she doesn’t. 

But she has been caught, and now all she can do is handle the situation with grace. She stands up straight smoothes the front of her tunic under her belts and turns to face the very, very tall man. “My apologies. You are the first I’ve ever seen. I did not intend to stare.” She likes to think she sounded very composed but the man merely laughs. It is deep, booming, she feels the reverberation in her heels. He turns his head a little more to keep his eye on her and looks her over, up and down and up again slowly, his expression unreadable. “Yeah, not surprised you’ve never seen a Qunari.” He comments quickly. “You’re Dalish right?” Now her cheeks are burning. He says Dalish where any other man would say sheltered. So, Atisha marches right up to this massive mountain of a man and shoves her hand out in that human greeting she learned. She knows things, not Dalish things, see!

“Atisha Sabrae, First of the Sun.” She introduces herself. The man smiles a wide smile and takes her hand in his. His hand is huge, it swallows hers. She expects a crushing grip, but he is surprisingly gentle. He bends his knees, then his head, and raises her gloved knuckle to his mouth briefly brushing a kiss to the leather. She feels the tips of her ears turn cherry red, and the flush creeps its awful way down her chest.

“The Iron Bull, Head of the Bull’s Chargers. Pleased to meet you.” He says into her hand.

And there’s a bit of amusement in his voice. He lets go of her hand returning it to her gently. Too gently. How is a man that looks so much like a beast so gentle. Her father must have been telling her false stories. She watches him straighten back up, watches his lip quirk up in the corner. “So, go ahead, ask your questions.” He tells her. She blinks. Distantly she hears Thom choking on his laughter trying not to howl. “I’ve not formed any.” She replies honestly. “Usually I’m the center of strange insensitive questions. I’m so busy trying to not invite any questions, I didn’t think to come up with any to ask you.” Bull appreciates that she isn’t lying. “That’s fair.” He tells her. He flicks his gaze to where Thom is dying of lack of air back to her. 

“Friend of yours?”

“Hardly.”

“Forlorn lover?” He jokes.

Atisha’s nose wrinkles in disgust.

Bull laughs. 

“He’s just a wayward warden we have adopted. Truly, I don’t know if he’s even housetrained.” She tell Bull. His laugh deepens. 

“And just like a pesky dog he’s decided to hound you hasn’t he?” 

“Would you like your own warden?” She asks mischievously. Bull considers it. 

“I don’t know what I’d feed it. Besides, shit’s depressing enough around here without adding the Blight doom and gloom to it.”

Atisha likes this man. She likes his company and he is funny. He understands her too. He listens to her. She appreciates that.

“The Iron Bull, I would very much like to be your friend.” She tells him.

“Most people want to be something else to me.” He replies. She makes a sour face at that. Clearly, she is not interested. 

“I am not most people.”

“Well then, friends it is.”

And they shake on it.


	20. Chapter 20

“He is the standing ruins, holding steady the world, still, strong, surviving, Suledin. Sneaking out to pick blackberries and watch the sunrise, mouths purple, hands sticky. Holding, holds, held. Every breath is his, every beat is his. Please father, don’t be mad. But he wasn’t mad. Why would he be mad?” 

“Cole, I would appreciate if you let him rest.”

“He does not, cannot, will not rest. How can survival sleep? He who endures, never fading always watching, the walls that hold. And his Peace in pieces, so pretty and polite and bleeding poise. How does the Ever sleep when his heart keeps beating. Da’vhen’an, ma’vhen’an.”

“Please.” Voice splintering like ice hitting the ground.

“He loved you before you knew his name, and he will love you until the world is undone. Please, don’t cry Atisha. He wanted the world for you. You deserve to live. He wants you to live.” 

“It doesn’t help.”

“I know. It won’t ever.”

-

“Girl with lion eyes, and blistered hands, and heart of light. Laughing in the stream. The blood washing away. Dark mud in her hair, for a moment, Linny.”

“Cole, let’s talk about this in private.” Thom tells the boy.

“Sunflowers, bluebells, crystal grace, she makes crowns of field and spring for that man. Linny loved you too, you know. The man lifting her to pick apples, the sound of stable animals chuffing, and the way she looks at him. Her laugh warm and honey sweet bells. Linny did not love you like that.”

“Fine. Just, say your piece.”

“Peace. You care about her, don’t you? A little like you did Linny, but more like that man did. You know you can’t have her. A flower you cannot pick, a mirror that does not reflect, a heart that will not bleed love. A laugh that is not warm.”

“I know.” He hisses.

“So why do you pick her apples?”

He doesn’t know.

-

“Bull, why are you afraid of Atisha?”

“I’m not.” A lie.

“Twisting hands the taste of sky, lightning splitting trees in her grief. Uncontrollable. Untamed. And I am in her path. Buckling earth, the taste of salt like Seheron. Hands on the dragon’s throat, and the sharp smile as she pushes her hand into the beast. The calm in it’s eyes. The love in it’s eyes.”

“Anyone would be a bit shaken if they watched a woman walk up to a dragon and slit its neck. It didn’t even fight back.”

“You wouldn’t either.”

“Yeah, Cole, that doesn’t help.”

“She wouldn’t let it happen. You’re friends. You said so. She loves her friends. You are safe.”

-

“He forgives you.”

And there are so many people who she wants to forgive her she isn’t sure who he means.

“Hands so small, seeking not me but the Son of Whispers. Her smile, her mother’s. Her eyes, mine. And hardly a tear spilt bringing her gasping into the world. Sunshine on a spring day. The kind of dawning that leaves you sleepy and at ease. At peace. My peace. If she could come into this world so gentle, then maybe she could undo what pains I have done.”

“Father.” Atisha breathes.

“He forgives you. Will you answer his letters?”

“I don’t know.”

-

“Cassandra, what does it mean when people call Atisha holy?”

“People call her that?”

“They say it very loudly in their thoughts. You do it sometimes too. What do you mean?”

“I do not!”

“She stands, Golden, glowing, sunrise on snow, power and grace. So small and so large. Imposing. The smell of citrus and smoke. Flame halo hair. Andraste burnt and this is the pyre. And though the beast breathes corruption, her barrier does not fall. And though the Herald has been consumed, she stands tall. Hard and holding and holy for a heathen. She does not falter. Magic serving man as the Maker intended. All are safe under her righteous wing.”

“I, things were bad, it was just a thought Cole. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It did to you.” Cole whispers and as he fades, “you wanted to be like her.”

-

“She fears you, but knows you will fall before you let them take her.”

“Can someone get him out of here? I’ve enough work to do without his distractions.”

“They tell stories about templars you know. She sleeps behind two locked doors, and still does not feel safe. Not truly. Not with the armor clanking outside the wall. She is afraid. Of you. But mostly of them. The men who aren’t you are worse. The men who aren’t you would hurt her, bad. She heard them, hears them, sharp ears and they are not quiet outside her window. They call her maleficar.”

Cullen frowns. 

“Give me names.”

“Yes.”

All of them?

“Fine, I’ll change the patrols. Inquisition soldiers only in that quadrant.”

“It will help.”


	21. Chapter 21

“Evelyn, please don’t send me. I know nothing of Fereldan or of apostates. I’m Dalish. We don’t have apostates where I’m from.”

“Look, we need mages. And we need Templars to protect those mages. I can’t send you to go get templars, mostly because you’d light the place on fire then claim it was ash when you got there, but also for diplomacy reasons. I lived in a Circle, I know how to talk to them.”

“This is because of the ears isn’t it? Because the mage leader is an elf.”

“Maker’s tears, that’s not it at all! They respect you. We grow up hearing stories of free Dalish mages. They’ll follow you!”

Atisha looks to her fellow advisors hoping one of them will save her. Josephine focuses intently on her clipboard, Cullen quickly begins fumbling with the pieces representing forces on the map. She turns to Leliana.

“The Herald is right. It’s too risky to lose the templars. We need both. Templars to weaken and kill demons coming out of the Breach, and mages to give her the power to close it.” Leliana says firmly. Atisha feels horribly betrayed.

“That’s all well but can’t you send someone a little more,” she stops to find the word. 

“Human.” Cullen supplies right as Atisha says “qualified.”

“You are the best we have.” Josephine assures her. 

“Fine but if I get there and Redcliffe is burnt to the ground and there is nothing but ash I won’t say I told you so, I’ll just remind you that this is a terrible idea and I know nothing of human cultures and human mages.”

“Some of them are elves!” Evelyn says cheerfully. “Not really.” Atisha mutters under her breath.


	22. Chapter 22

Magister Alexius is more than happy to get his hands on the First of the Sun. When they send the missive requesting he meet with Atisha instead of Evelyn, the reply is nearly instant. Well, aside from travel time. He writes that it would honor and please him immensely if Lady Atisha Sabrae would come to Redcliffe Castle to talk about leasing the mages. Leasing. His words. A slave-owners words. It makes Atisha’s mouth run dry and her stomach tighten. 

Her people had a history of slavery. Most people did. But it was ended with her Uncle’s movement. Atisha had never seen a slave, not in person. Though, she had read many books on them. Education in the Dales does not hide the unpleasantness of what was done. And so, out of respect for the thousands of elves who had served, Atisha was one of many in the nobility to take the vallaslin. The marks of a slave. It was part of a campaign to rewrite the meaning of such marks. To make them a sign of devotion, not a cattle brand. 

This Alexius upsets her greatly. She very much would like not to go, but it has been arranged. Her Uncle and the Seeker would take that archer, Sera, with them to accompany Evelyn at Therinfall Redoubt. She would go with The Iron Bull, Thom, and the Tevinter mage Dorian to Redcliffe Castle. 

Atisha dislikes this plan. But Sister Nightingale has assured her safety. It doesn’t soothe her. Everything in her is screaming to raze the castle, kill everyone inside. It is corrupt. The intentions here are foul. She had said the Dales would send mages if they needed mages, Cullen has vehemently declined. He had struck down the idea with the force of lightning. ‘Your mages are not safe. We need mages who have been properly trained against demons.’ He had said. And he had set Atisha’s veins alight with rage. But Josephine and Leliana agreed that they needed Circle mages. ‘Your people will not work with templars, no?’ And they were right. No Dalish mage would bow to a human templar. So, she had been ferried off to recruit the Grand Enchanter’s people.

It disgusted her. 

She was sent to get lapdogs where they needed wolves.

The whole thing left a foul taste in the back of her mouth.

And then Atisha saw the future of this world. A future where this Magister was wearing her Father’s necklace. A future where the sky blazed like emerald fire, and trees were encased in the dark hum of red lyrium. A future where, according to the documents she managed to skim through, her family had been slaughtered by the Wardens shortly before the conquering of Orlais. Or even in tandem. It isn’t clear. What should happen if the Breach is not closed. But there was hope. Whispers in this future of the Inquisition working out of the Hissing Wastes. Rumors of templar forces making a push against rifts and demons, and the Herald yet lived. Evelyn lived. But she had failed to stop the Wardens. She had failed to protect Orlais.

Atisha will not allow this future. She knows too much now to let this come to pass.

These beasts cannot have her people. They cannot have her family. They cannot have this world. 

Thom and Bull at her flank, Dorian at her side. She is anger incarnate as they climb the multitude of stairs out of the dungeons. 

“Tell us where the Inquisition is hiding.”

A demand muffled by the wood of a door. Her blood quickens at the scream following the quiet response of the other party. Presumably, whomever the man was asking. “That’s Solas.” She whispers, moving faster. Before her the Venatori fall, her energy blades sinking deep into flesh and rending armor as panic builds. “How do you know?” Thom asks. And she does not say, because I know my Uncle. These people are not meant to know such things about her. They are not meant to know that Solas taught her to use her magic so well. They are not mean to know he taught her to paint, and to do basic stitching on her clothing, and that he took her Hart riding and Halla watching as a child. They are not to know that she and he know each other beyond the Inquisition.

Another scream, a question Atisha could not hear over the blood pounding in her ears.

“I just do.” She snaps, breathless. Thom has the decency not to fight it. Blood sticky in her hair. Knuckles white. The wood of the door is not under her palms fast enough. 

And he is there, her uncle, bound in a chair and bloodied. His ears whittled down to the shape of a humans and red-green with infection. Eyes unfocused. Her knife is ripping through the arteries in his tormenter’s neck before she knows what she has done. 

“Da’lin,” his magic tentative, shy, as it reaches out towards her. “Hahren,” Her reply as she meets his energy soothingly. “You are meant to be dead.” His voice is so ugly like this, so ruined. It grinds around something deep in this throat splits like cracks in a mirror. “How have the spirits returned you to us?” He asks, coughing. She moves to undo his bindings as the tevinter mage speaks up, too cocky for her taste. 

“We aren’t dead. Alexius sent us through time. None of this is real. Once we return, this won’t happen.” So sure of himself.

Solas nods slowly, pain flashing across his features. He turns his attention back to Atisha raising his hand to cup her cheek. He is missing three fingers, and the nails from the rest, the tip of his thumb has been ungracefully removed as well, she notes. She will kill Alexis. It will be slow. She will kill his precious son first. It will be painful. “Da’lin, you know this spell?” She shakes her head. “Dorian does.” Solas nods again. 

“Rest, Hahren, we will put an end to this. Spirits willing, you will not remember.” Atisha tells him soothingly. She wants him to forget. She wants herself to forget. She wants this world to cease, even if she has to unravel it with blood and fire.

“I am not so old that I must sit idly by while you risk everything.” He tells her, shakily getting to his feet. “They took my staff, but I am not defenseless.” Atisha’s brow furrows. Solas turns his attention to the entire group. “Alexius does not leave the main hall. That is where you will find him. We must make a stand.” 

Atisha agrees, and as they find their way towards the center of Redcliffe Castle, her uncle quietly murmurs, “Ar solasa ma.” No, Atisha thinks, I am proud of you, Uncle. Proud that you have survived this world where others have fallen.

And then she watches him die for her, and after Suledin, Atisha breaks.


	23. Chapter 23

“Da’lin, may I come in.” The voice following yet another gentle set of knocks on the door to her office. She had turned away Evelyn and Leliana already. Shouted at Thom to leave, told Dorian she did not want to see him ever for what his invention had done to her. She had even put wards up to keep the compassion spirit away.

And no one had seen her outside her quarters in three days.

She had spoken to no one on the journey to Skyhold. And before that, had ignored the festivities at Haven after closing the Breach. Atisha had been a ghost of a woman for a while now. 

“No.” She raises her voice so he can hear her. But Solas does not leave. Instead, he sits down and leans his back against the door.

“You cannot stay in there forever, Atisha. Sooner or later you must eat.” He tells her. She makes her way to the door and sits on the other side to better hear him. “I don’t want to see them. I don’t want to see you.” She winces at the childish whine in her voice. He taps his fingers on the wood knowingly. “What you have seen must have been terrible.” He muses. “Yes.” She agrees. Silence. Distantly she hears the chirping of birds. 

“I have watered your plants for you.” Solas interrupts the quiet. She thinks of Haven, and Redcliffe, and the long journey here. Thinks of how she had foolishly planted elfroot and embrium seeds in the rundown garden. She had wanted to see something grow. Thought it would make her feel better. They were still seeds, and it hadn’t helped. 

“Evelyn is worried about you.” He tries again.

“Tell her I’m fine. My letters are still going out. I’m doing my work.”

“You aren’t fine.” 

He is always right. She hates that about him. He ash always been right and has always known her so well. This time it was obvious, but times before he had noticed even when she was smiling and laughing that something was weighing heavy. And why shouldn’t he? He has trained her personally and cared for her like she was one of his own.

“Tell me.” He pleas. 

“You died for me.” She whispers, knowing with his sharp hearing he heard her clearly. “And why wouldn’t I?” He asks. “This should not surprise you, Atisha. I have known you since you were born. You are my family. Of course I would die to protect you.” It makes it worse, she thinks, to hear him say it. 

“I know. But you died and then they insisted we drag that man in chains through the mountains. When Haven was burning they brought the man who killed you. Who killed Father. Who killed Mahanon.” Her uncle’s soft tapping on the wood halts. “In this future, you are telling me in this future he killed Mahanon.” They are both angry now. Then Solas sighs. “It has not come to pass, Atisha. And everyone understands that you suffered from what you saw. Let me in, or come out. It is not good to harbor such hatred. And you don’t have to bear it alone.” 

I think I am alone, she thinks bitterly. 

“Why don’t you talk to someone who was there?” It is a hesitant suggestion that tastes like ashes in his mouth. 

“You mean Dorian?”

“Who else would know what you have seen? Maybe it would do some good to share your feelings with him.”

They both dislike this greatly, and if the door wasn’t in the way their expressions would be a mirror of distaste. 

“I’d rather starve in my quarters.” She says darkly. She hears Solas chuckle in response. “As would I.” He agrees. Then, curiously, “Why not write your father about it?” And she hadn’t thought of that. Solas and her father have never gotten along, but maybe it would help to speak to someone who knows her. Father isn’t good with emotions, and neither is Atisha. But he did have a certain way with words. Usually something along the lines of ‘duty before pain’ or ‘sorrow is a crutch for the young’ but he did try in his own way. Then she remembers Suledin is dead, and she hasn’t written back a single letter to him since the first one he sent regarding the death.

“I think he would kill me if I wrote him about this.” She mumbles. Solas hums. 

“You need to make more friends, Da’lin.”

“Says the man who would befriend a pot of paint over a person.”

“That’s what makes it so unpleasant to say.” He replies and she can hear the smirk on his face. “Why not talk to your fellow advisors? Build something. It serves to help our purpose, and to help your wounded heart.”

“Fine, if you’re going to make me play nice then I’m starting with the Commander.”

“Just to frustrate me, I assume.” 

“Yes, just to frustrate you.”

“Be careful playing with fire.” He chides as he has one hundred times before. Atisha wonders if the fire is his temper, or the templar. But she sets her mind to make these supposed friends, and a templar is wiser than he thinks. She befriends the man in charge, he protects her from the others. She just has to get over her fear and actually speak to him outside war meetings.

“Or what? You’ll run off and get slaughtered in front of me again?” She teases with bittersweet mirth.

“Don’t tempt me, Da’lin.” He laughs back with equal amusement. “So, should I send the Commander to check on you?”

She sighs instantly regretting telling him she would talk to Cullen. 

“Yes, I suppose I must keep my word and obey my elder.” She sighs. Her ears twitch when she hears him rises, and wordlessly, walk away.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atisha writes a letter to her father. Translated by Atisha and confirmed by Leliana’s people.

All-Father, Sun who bathes the Dales in Light, Elgar’nan,

It has been a long time since you wrote me, and I in my grief have neglected to return your letters. I do not know what to say to you. I have disappointed our family immensely, and failed Dirthamen as well. No amount of sorrow can ever correct this folly. Father, my grief is a living thing. It is a poison, a parasite. It keeps me from writing my family. It keeps me from spending time with others. It keeps me from sending gifts to Mother. But it will keep me no longer.

I have been a poor daughter, and a poorer First. 

So, I write to send news instead.

Under my watchful eye, the Inquisition has grown immensely. Sylaise’s healers have done much to keep us prepared for battle. I personally oversaw the recruitment of the shemlen mages, and assisted in their transition to the Inquisition. We have made a renewed focus on acquiring artifacts of our people from forgotten places. No more shall our magic be taken from us and twisted. I am sending tapestries recovered from caves near Starkhaven to you. They look to belong to Jun. the Inquisition is well fortified and protected on the old lands of Fen’harel. I am ensuring it remains that way, and personally reworking the wards on these grounds.

On a personal note, I have begun to speak to more of the Shemlen here. I am learning things that our people have not known about them, and I am hoping to make friends, Father. It has been lonely without Suledin, and I fear that without companionship and camaraderie that I will never recover from my grief. I have begun to speak more with our Commander. He is a kind man, but also a templar. I am being cautious. The man is Fereldan, and I would like to present him with an appropriate gift to show my appreciation for his work as our Commander. Would you send me a pair of our best hunting dogs? A Fereldan Commander should have dogs of good breed and excellent training. It is a sign of nobility in their country, and it would remind me of home. 

Oh, I am out of time for this letter, Father. I have a meeting to attend, and if I do not send this today it may never get sent. Tell mother I love her. May the Sun’s rays always illuminate your path.

Your daughter,

Atisha, First of the Sun.


	25. Chapter 25

She finds herself in the Commander’s office for the fourth time this week tossing reports onto his desk. It turns out the title Elven Ambassador really meant Magical Artifact Expert. She is lucky she is both. Cullen raises one finely colored eyebrow at her and skims over the report. 

“You know,” he says as his eyes drink in information about the latest artifact her and Dagna had been working. Dagna’s report had been starkly different, he notes. “They might as well put another desk in here with how often you bring me work.” She watches him delicately stack her report onto a pile of her previous work. He folds his hands over his desk threading his fingers together. The picture of a studious man. 

“With how late I work you’d never manage any sleep, Commander.” She says back very formally. He manages to hold back his amusement, mostly, when he tells her. “I think my sleeping habits would be just fine.” It’s his own private joke. Between work, and the nightmares, and the lyrium aches he’s lucky to get four hours of sleep on a very good night. She gives him that eerie knowing look she always gives him when he says something of this sort, then cants her head sharply to the right. 

“Do you have a moment?” 

He looks down at all the paperwork and reports and requisition requests he has to approve, and decides to take this out. If she wants to save him from the woes of desk work, he’s happy to oblige. “I’ve always got a moment for you, Ambassador.” And he immediately realizes how it sounds just a moment too late. Maker, he hadn’t meant it that way, but she just looks at him curiously and gives a curt nod. He hopes the Dalish are different enough that she didn’t catch his mistake. 

“I’ll remember that.” She says voice low and knowing and it digs into him. “Come with me.” It’s a demand. She can be oddly demanding, he has noticed, when she isn’t playing the polite elven princess. And so he follows her out his office and down the battlement stairs. He works very hard to shove his embarrassment into that corner of his mind he shoves everything else into as he follows her. 

“Where are we going?”

“That’s a surprise.” Voice like bells chiming. She sounds too happy. He is immediately suspicious. 

They come down the battlements and he smells the warmth and foulness of the stables clear as day. The scent permeates the air here. 

“You told me you were Fereldan, but not from a very influential family once. And that you had never gotten the things you’d always wanted from that life.” She says over her shoulder as she gestures towards to the barn, “I wanted to give you something worthy of you.” Atisha speaks smoothly not a sign of nervousness. And she, like most elves, is slender and fine and he can see the bones in her jawline move clearly as she speaks, her tattoos flowing with her skin. 

She walks to one of the stalls on the side of the stables, fire red braid swaying with her movement, and unlocks it. Immediately she is set upon by two of the most beautiful wolf-dogs he has ever seen. Her laugh echoes off the stone as they jump on her licking and barking and wiggling with joy. She turns just her head to him, smile wide and unabashed hounds licking and vibrating with happiness to see her.

“For you.” She tells him, as pets the beasts. 

Something tightens in his chest. “I can’t. They’re beautiful. I can’t have them.” He tells her. She tilts her head looking just as wolf as these dogs. “Too bad, they’re yours.” His eyes are wet and he swallows that down and puts that away. Only kings get dogs this fine. And only the nobles have wardogs at all. He’d fantasized about dogs as a boy, sure, what Fereldan doesn’t? But to be presented them, and not only dogs, but Dalish Hunting Wolves. It’s too much. He hasn’t been a good man longer than a year. And he could be a saint and not deserve such fine bred dogs.

“I don’t deserve them.” It comes out of his mouth before he can stop it. Her smile slowly dies. “What?” She asks, and one of the pups whimpers when she stops petting him. So she subconsciously rubs the back of its neck. Cullen does not want to think about how that makes him feel. “I’m not, look I can’t accept them. They’re beautiful and I appreciate the gesture, but I’m not of high enough birth.” It’s an excuse. She seems to see right through it. “They were Suledin’s pups bred and raised by him, and he is gone now, so they are mine. I told my father not to send them. I would not be able to love them fairly. But then you told me you’d always wanted dogs, and I spent time with you and got to know you.” She trails off then her face sets. “Cullen, put aside everything for a moment. Do you want them?” 

“Yes.” He says very slowly. He imagines he sounds very small and childish when he says it.

“Would you love them?” She demands to know.

“I would, but Atisha I cannot accept them-“

“Take the dogs Cullen. I sent for them for you. I am not taking a no for an answer. Don’t make me bring Leliana into this.”

“What,” He clears his throat. “What are their names?”

“Flint,” She says putting her hand above the bigger greyer wolf, “and Ivory.” She gestures to the paler of the two. 

“Well, I guess I’ll have to get some blankets for them. My office floor is unforgiving.” 

Atisha grins.


	26. Chapter 26

“I wanted to be the one to tell you. I thought it would help if it came from a friend.” 

Atisha stares at Cullen, processing. For a moment he thinks she is going to faint she goes so pale. He is honest, gentle, kind. Traits she would have never thought he would possess. And he is right, over the past few months she has grown to think of him as a friend. Maybe even something closer. Maybe a kind of kin. Odd. A human so close to her. And she trusts him. 

They had captured one of Corypheus’s high ranking generals and brought him back to Skyhold. 

And Cullen had oversaw his escort to the cells.

Dark hair, one deep blue eye and one eye rift green, and forest green vallaslin. Atisha had asked him back at Haven when he gave her the report from the Temple of Dirthamen to look for a man who looked like that. And it was dead on, except the green eye. And he had to be the one to tell her. She needed to hear from him that the man in the cells looked like someone dear to her. 

But she hasn’t spoke in nearly five minutes and instead has collapsed back against her desk. 

“Cullen, will you take me to him?” It is a whispered request. He’s never seen her so frightened. Not even when the templars marched through the gates of Haven. 

“Of course.” His reply is instant. He extends a hand to help steady her and she gratefully takes it. Cullen winces as Atisha crushes his hand in her tiny grip. Sometimes he forgets she has trained in physical and magical combat, then she does a little thing with surprising strength and reminds him. 

“I should warn you, whoever that man was before, he is not now. I need you to understand, Atisha, that thing is a man no longer.” He sounds deeply uncomfortable as he says it. Cullen reaches out and opens the door to her office, guiding her gently through it. “Were it not for the intelligence we have seen displayed, and my promise to you, I would not risk bringing it back here.”

It. Thing.

Mythal’enaste.

“Cullen, please just tell me what you aren’t saying.” She chokes out. He hates doing this. He hates dragging her through this grief. He hates that he has that man’s dogs sleeping peaceful in his office, and they have no idea their master is here. But he isn’t here, Cullen reminds himself.

He steels himself, squeezes her hand gently. 

“I believe what we have brought back is a demon. I have heard of such cases, where a demon crosses through and finds a body then makes that body it’s host.”

She inhales sharply through her teeth. It’s a blow to his gut. 

“Did it tell you what it is?”

Her voice ruptures, bleeding pain. 

“No.” He tells her.

What he does not tell her, is it does not matter. He know this thing is of the Fade. He is a Templar and he has dealt will possessions before. Granted, it isn’t textbook. But it is a possession. He can feel it. Cassandra confirmed it. The only reason this abomination breathes is for interrogation. And, he thinks sadly, so that Atisha can say goodbye. She will finally have a body. Though they haven’t been able to figure out how the creature has kept the body from decomposing, they will get the body back. He just worries it will crumble to ash when the demon is slain.

It is a quiet long walk to the dungeons. Cullen retrieves a lantern from the guardsmen’s table. The air is cold and clammy, and Atisha presses her body against him as they walk to escape the chill. He tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow and continues down the stairs. The silence is deafening, the air itself feels heavy with grief. He recognizes it is her magic, leaking emotional distress out. He does not mention this. 

“When I was a child I was taught never to have fantasies.” She tells him, voice bouncing wrong off the stone halls. “Mage children and fantasies go bad. And when he died, I tried so hard not to wish he had lived.” He can hear she’s crying, but it is remarkably controlled. “This is how the world rewards mages with wishes.” She says to him. Cullen cannot imagine not being allowed desires or fantasies. It’s all that got him through his training and Kinloch. Belief. Hope. 

“I should not have wanted him back.” She says so finally, so dreadfully that his stomach twists. They pass cells full of petty criminals and Cullen does not touch on what she has said. It is not something he is able to help. When they are coming up on the cell holding the abomination, he slows and gestures. Atisha’s grip on his arm tightens so much it is painful, and she nods and steps forward.

The same dark hair, cut. He is missing his braid. The same beautiful delicate ears, pointed perfectly, missing their gold jewelry. His right eye, black-blue, unfocusing. His left eye, rift-green, flicks to her immediately. She traces the lines of his father’s mark on him down his neck stopping when she sees what looks to be burn scars across the left side of his chest. The burns seem to flow to his left shoulder and down his arm from what she can see. Atisha feels very ill and leans on Cullen. Her chest aches. 

“It’s you, isn’t it?” The thing that looks like Suledin speaks with his voice, and she wants to rip it out of him. The same voice that comforted her, taught her, raised her, loved her. How dare it? It moves slowly, naturally closer but turns its left side away. “Please don’t look, Lethallin. The wounds are not something you should see.” It sounds genuine. It sounds like him. It sounds like it cares. Her head swims. She wants to run, to leave, to pretend she had never seen this. But she can’t. She is here. She has something to do.

“You know what he called me.” Her voice trembles. Cullen angles himself to keep her further from the thing. “Tell me, what are you?” Not-Suledin looks at her with the unfocused ocean eye and answers immediately, clearly. “I am Love.” 

Cullen spits back, “You mean Desire.” 

It looks at him measuredly. “I am Love.” It repeats. “I have no wish to take, only to give. I am not like Desire. I will never be like Desire.”

Atisha takes a shaky breath. “Why him? Why are you in him?”

Love turns to her and smiles a very sad smile with Suledin’s face. Suledin’s very alive looking face, Atisha notes with disgust.

“He called me.” It answers, honestly. “He asked me to undo it all. But I couldn’t. I am not Life, or Strength, or Justice. I am Love. And I could not heal him. So, he asked me to make a world for the one he loved. To fight to give her what she deserves, and that is you, isn’t it? You are why I heard his call, aren’t you?”

“It’s playing games with you, Atisha. We should leave.”

“No, I need to hear it.”

Love looks very sad. “He had a very specific idea of the world he wanted to give you. I was promised that with my service, that world could happen. I do not care the cost. I am Love. I will give, I will sacrifice, I will do whatever it takes to fulfill. I will protect.” It frowns. “I am hurting you.” Its voice softens as the tears begin to spill. Atisha curses her weak spot for Suledin. 

“Yes.” She tells it. Love tilts Suledin’s head. “I am sorry. He does not like this. He wants you to leave.” It tells her. She stiffens. Its voice had trembled the same way his did when he was upset. She does not like the way it makes her lungs tighten. 

“Are you trying to tell us that he is alive?” Cullen snarls the question. The spirit looks confused. “I could not make him better, but I could do something. I could preserve. He had only to say yes. He said yes. I have never seen one of the living so devoted. He would have given anything for you. He was lucky I heard him, and not Desire.” It stops, looks beyond them at the wall. Listening.

Fast footsteps behind them. Hands wrap around Atisha’s shoulder ripping her hand from Cullen’s elbow and she is pulled to someone’s chest. The smell of snow, and magic, and autumn plums. Uncle.

“You brought her down here?” Cullen blinks at the anger. Solas is furious, red with rage. Cullen has never seen the man angry before. Irritated maybe, but never genuine anger. “She asked me to take her.” He says dumbly. Solas bares his teeth at that. He holds Atisha in a crushing embrace. Cullen sees the woman’s shoulders wrack with quiet sobs. “And so you thought to parade her before the possessed body of her previously dead husband?” He shoots back. Cullen is not sure what to say. “And I’m sure if she had asked you to help her take red lyrium you would have done that as well, wouldn’t you?” Solas spits. Atisha reaches one trembling hand up and tugs on the cord around his neck. A silent plea. His face softens for a moment as he looks down to her, then flashes his eyes to Cullen, “We will speak of your foolishness later. Atisha, come, you should not see this.” And Cullen vaguely registers it is a threat before Solas is sweeping her up and out of the dungeons, face set with rage. 

He suffers one last look at the creature in the cell, then follows them up the stairs.


	27. Chapter 27

Suledin laughs and the world is brighter. The others in the market turn their heads to listen to the music of mirth he creates. Next to him, Atisha, barely seventeen summers old, is wrinkling her nose are the stall’s selection of earrings. In a fortnight she is to be announced as the official First of the Sun. Mother had sent them to pick out something nice to pair with the dress being hand tailored for her. Suledin had said that she would look lovely with nice earrings, and so Atisha had decided she had to find the perfect pair of earrings.

And nowhere in Halam’shiral had seemed to have any worthy of her.

But she did get to hear Suledin laugh, and she did get to walk with him.

Maybe that was more important. 

“You’ll have to pick eventually, you know.” He said to her as he walked her to the next boutique. Atisha barely notices though, she is too busy watching the sunlight play on the long strands of his hair that have escaped his braid. “Why don’t you pick for me?” She asks him. He smiles that half smile of his that turns her knees to jelly. “I can’t do everything for you, Atisha.” He laughs. She wants to say ‘why not?’ But thinks better of annoying him. It is a precious day when he is so forthcoming with smiles and laughter, and she wants it to stay that way. 

“It was worth a shot.” She teases instead, eyes going back to the loose strands fluttering around his head with their movement. “It truly doesn’t matter what pair,” He tells her seriously. “You could wear the most hideous earrings possible and everyone would tell you how beautiful they were. So, just pick something you like and stick with it. If anyone says other wise, well, that’s what I’m here for.” 

He really has no idea how intimidating he is when he says things like that.

And Atisha really has no idea how he manages to make her feel like her heart is failing. 

“Suledin, the only opinion I’m worried about is yours.” Atisha is almost shy as she says it and his brows raise. “Lethallin, I number myself among those fool nobles who would think anything you did to be lovely.” Yes, she thinks bitterly, because you are under orders to. He catches her eye and must see her despair, because he quickly speaks up. “Although, I do believe gold has always been suiting for you. Gold for your vallaslin.” Gold. The last stall they had looked at had a pair of earrings, golden, one with an emerald and one with a sapphire. She grabs his arm and turns quickly. Suledin, used to Atisha, allows her to drag him off. 

And she picks those earrings, and their matching set. One emerald and one sapphire set.

“Why two sets?” He asks after she receives them. She grabs his hand with her empty hand and opens it, then deposits one gold and emerald earring and one gold and sapphire earring into his hand. “I don’t want to do this alone, Suledin. If I can’t have you there in person, then I want you in symbol.” And he nods his understanding. “Allow me then.” Suledin leans down to work her earrings in, emerald on the left, sapphire on the right, then he tilts his head down and allows her to do the same on him. 

There are precious few moments where Suledin looks at her like he is now, and Atisha still does not know how to make those moments. 

But they are more often now. 

“Your mother is going to kill me and ship my body off to Falon’din for processing.” He tells her. 

“Mamae wouldn’t do that. Besides, isn’t she the one who convinced your father to agree to our ‘betrothal’ on top of your role as guardian?” She drawls out betrothal playfully, like it is a silly game between children. Suledin’s mood swiftly sours, he always sours when she brings it up. 

“You have a point. Matching earrings is just the beginning of the horrors your family must endure.” He says flatly. 

“I’m sorry,” She quickly interjects, “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I know it upsets you.”

And why shouldn’t it? He is ten years her senior. And Atisha suspects he has eyes for her sister anyways. He was just unlucky. 

“It does not upset me.” He tells her, grabbing her arm to guide her out of the way of a passing group. He doesn’t sound like he’s lying, which frustrates her further. “Not the fact of it, at least. What upsets me is how quickly your life was decided for you, Atisha. Listen, Lethallin, it’s just a contract. Just like me being your guardian.”

Oh.

Now it must be her mood that has soured.

“Did your contract ask you to be my friend?” She mumbles bitterly. He curses under his breath and begins walking faster, not relinquishing his grip on her. “No, Atisha, it didn’t. Please, let’s talk about this later, after your ascension. You’re too young to be worrying about things like betrothals, and I have no desire to occupy your mind with that.” What he doesn’t say is, ‘I’m not ready to talk’. But she understands it anyways. She also understands that he has to talk eventually. Why not today?

“In two weeks I am considered an adult, Suledin. You can’t ignore that forever.”

“I can try.” He snaps back, and he sounds like father. 

“Well, I can’t.” She halts in her tracks. Resists his gentle tug to keep walking. “You can’t treat me like I’m inept or incapable of thought or feelings forever, Suledin.” She insists. He frowns. “Atisha, you are very young, and you have a very different outlook on life because of it. We both have a very long time to talk about these things, but I would ask that we not talk now. And not here.” 

“Why, are you embarrassed of me?” 

“Of course not, you are the daughter of Elgar’nan. I could ask for no finer company.”

“Why do you do that, Suledin? Talk to me like I am a painting and not a person?”

“Oh, for, fenhedis, Atisha that isn’t what’s happening right now,”

“Then what is?” And she is so hurt sounding it gives him pause. 

“Lethallin, please, I care about you and I’d like to stop this now,” He finds himself pleading with her. Just let it go, just for today. Just for now.

“Suledin, I love you but I am tired of being ignored by you when I’m begging you to listen. I won’t beg anymore. You can talk to me, or you can choose not to, but I’m done.”

He watches her storm off through the markets towards the Sun Citadel and sighs. Fighting with her like this and he isn’t even in her household yet. His fingers brush against the new earrings. Suledin curses under his breath and chases after her. He has a duty, and he can’t do that if she gets herself killed throwing a fit.


	28. Chapter 28

Suledin finds her in the Citadel gardens. She is asleep on Uncle Solas's lap. Uncle is rebraiding her hair when Suledin approaches.

"How bad?" He asks nervously.

"She is, apparently, not speaking to you until you apologize." He replies. "She was very upset. What did you do this time?"

Suledin sits on the soft ground across from them.

"Hahren, I am beside myself. I do not know what to do. She is unreasonable with her advances and will not slow for dawn or dusk." He hangs his head with defeat. Uncle looks intrigued.

"Have you tried telling her the truth?"

He makes it sound so easy. 

"She would hate me for it."

Solas chuckles, runs his fingers in soothing circles across Atisha's cheek. 

"Suledin, she is no longer six years old and so easily distracted. One day she is going to see through you and see that you are a liar. And that will hurt her worse than you just telling her the truth."

"Can't we stay like this longer?" He asks meekly.

"I'm afraid not." Solas tells the younger man. 

"What if she sends me away?"

Solas smiles. "Have you walked her dreams, Suledin?"

He has. More than he cares to admit. She loves him in her dreams and he is ashamed at how he slips into them just to be close. To be honest. 

"I suspected as much. Talk to her. This will only get worse." 

It's not at all what he wants to hear. He wants Solas to tell him he's right. That Atisha is being unreasonable and childish. That she should apologize. But then he watches Solas touch her earrings.

And his hand goes to his matching earrings.

"Fenhedis," He curses under his breath.

"Indeed." Solas replies.

"Hahren, what if this is what I think? What if she feels this way only because she was expected to?"

"Then you do as you are named." He replies.

Suledin does not enjoy that thought.

But his uncle is right. She is older now. Young still. But old enough for him to be honest with. He has to know. He scoots over, shifting his weight to take Solas's place. Suledin's hand cradles the curve of Atisha' head as he settles her head on his thigh. Solas is all too quick to scamper off leaving Suledin to dare to wake her.

"Atisha, lethallin, wake up." He coaxes with a gentle shake of her shoulder. She grumbles in her sleep curling her hand around his ankle in protest. "Come on, I need to talk to you. I'm sorry I upset you please wake up."

Fitfully, she rolls over facing towards him now and her breath is warm on his hip and stomach. A few more gentle shakes and murmurs and he feels her coming back to consciousness. 

"Shush I don't want to talk to you." She mumbles, voice thick with sleep, then buries herself deeper into him. "Then just listen." He tells her. She makes a soft squeak that he takes as an affirmative.

"I've been unfair." She relaxes as he pets her hair. "Atisha, I do not like to talk about what has been asked of you. It is unfair. You deserved the chance to choose the first of your house as is customary, and I took that from you."

She slowly sits up, eyes clouded with sleep and confusion. "Father arranged it." She reminds him.

"At my request." He corrects. His mouth tastes foul with those words, with that truth. He watches her nose wrinkle as her brow furrows. "Suledin, that makes no sense. You were promised to my house when we were both children. It makes no sense for it to be your fault."

"I did not say fault. I said request." He reminds her. She blinks. "What do you mean?" Her voice is slow, words slow.

Creators have mercy.

"The adults were all talking about it. Jun had a child your age. They were all hopeful and that son was likely to have strong magic. I was twelve, and had been by your side since you were born, and foolish. I told my father I did not like that the adults were talking about you marrying the son of Jun."

Atisha begins piecing it together. 

"And he asked me what I intended to do. I was your protector. I had plenty of right to be protective. But I was weak with magic, not like the options they talked about. I was not impressive enough and did not know this."

He does not look at her. It is too much to look at her.

"I asked my father why I was not considered. He laughed. I asked what I had to do to be considered." 

Suledin licks his lips, eyes foggy with remembering.

"I was fifteen when I did it. I had to prove that even though my magic is weak I was good enough."

Atisha feels her heart go cold. The tourney. He had fought in a bloody tourney when she was five. She remembered how battered and bruised and bloody he was after. She had taken him flowers and sat by him while he recovered.

"Father arranged it with Elgar'nan. I did not know that you were supposed to choose. I am sorry, Atisha. I couldn't stand the thought of them handing you off."

He couldn't stand the thought of anyone else.

Her fingers wrap around his wrist.

"I am the reason you did not get to choose, and I can never give that back to you. I was selfish and foolish and young. I am sorry."

She leans into him, her forehead pressed to his shoulder. "I would have chosen you." She murmurs into his shirt. "I very much doubt that given the choice you would have picked me." He replies. Her arms snake around him, warm and gentle. "I would have." She insists. "Mamae says I have loved you since before I was born, and she is right. I came into this world to see you."

He laughs a sad laugh. It reminds her of heavy fog.

"Atisha, anyone could have protected you. It just happened to be me."

"It was only ever going to be you."

He doesn't know how to argue that. He had been hand picked for her safety. 

"You aren't mad?" He tentatively asks. Atisha laughs into his neck. Electricity dances down his spine. "I am not mad, Suledin. Walk away from me again when you have something to tell me and I will be."

He supposes that is fair. They sit like that a while. Atisha curled up in his half hold, breath warm and wet on his neck, her own arms resting next to the back of his hips.

"Did you mean it earlier in the market when you said you cared for me?" Atisha asks, half muffled, from where she is nuzzled into him. 

"What have I told you about asking questions you know the answer to?"

"Humor me."

"Atisha, at the age of twelve the thought of anyone else being in your life made me sick. It still makes me sick. Of course I care for you. Now shush lethallin, all these warm fuzzy emotions are giving me a headache." 

"Hmm, I love you too." She mumbles. He wishes she wouldn't say things like that. Baby steps, he tells himself, that is a conversation for another day.


	29. Chapter 29

“I feel as if I’ve never the time to speak with you.” Evelyn says by way of greeting. Atisha graciously smiles back across from where they are taking the midday meal. “Evelyn, we talk often do we not?” She asks. Atisha dips her spoon back into her bowl. Ram stew with carrots and onion and a lovely small loaf of bread on the side. The soup has been getting a touch cold, as both women were late, so Atisha pushes some fire magic into her palms and cups the bowl. Evelyn gives her that curious look the woman gets when she is thinking too hard. “I mean I would like to know more of you outside of our work.” The woman tells her. 

How flattering. The Inquisitor wants to know her as a person and not an asset. She wonders why. Atisha braces herself for the onslaught of racially charged ignorant questions.

“What would you like to know?” Atisha asks. She breaks a piece of bread off and dips it into the rich broth before popping the soaked bread into her mouth. Evelyn takes a sip of the cider steaming from her mug, swirls the amber liquid thoughtfully in her mouth then swallows. “What was growing up in the Dales like?” Evelyn asks. 

That, Atisha thinks, is a loaded question. But she humors it.

“My childhood and any other Dalish child’s are vastly different. I grew up the daughter of one of the most prominent gods. I suppose it was not too unlike any other child’s. I played, I did crafts, I learned history and math, and language. I was also trained in numerous kinds of magic by many members of the pantheon. My family was close knit and distant in a different way. I likely spent more time with my uncles and aunts and cousins than I did my sister and father and mother.” Atisha stirs her bowl thoughtfully for a moment. “Growing up in the Dales, I imagine, is not so different than growing up anywhere else. We have our own traditions, holidays, beliefs and as a child we learn these things, but truly do not worry about them until we are older. Children are children, Evelyn.”

Evelyn takes a bite out of her bread and mulls that over. Atisha returns to warming her soup up to a reasonable temperature. 

After a moment, Evelyn tells her.

“I remember very little of my childhood home. I was seven when my magic came in, and the Circle is so different than Ostwick. We do have a few things in common though,” Evelyn’s dark eyes sparkle, “We both learned magic, and were educated.” She smiles a wide smile. Atisha notices a little green leaf stuck in the corner of one of Evelyn’s front teeth and feels her heart warm. This woman was very kind. Genuine. Honest. An admirable leader to be sure. 

Atisha spoons a mouthful of warm-hot soup in her mouth. The ram is chewy, gamey. Not the quality of food she grew up on, but homey and delicious in its own way. Humble.

“What was it like, the Circle I mean?” She asks, eagerly scooping another mouthful into her mouth and feeling a well cooked carrot turn to sweet savory mush in her mouth. Evelyn sets her mug down, hands moving with excitement as she speaks.

“It was the most wonderful prison. I got to learn, and practice, and teach. I was privileged to be able to spend most my days knitting and reading. I memorized the chant, and tested my memory on the Circle’s templars. It was a wonderful place for a scholar. Not an excellent place for other kinds of people. The children had a hard time transitioning. But usually, the templars were kind to the young ones, and those who kept their heads down.”

“The stories I’ve heard have described such Circles as very different.” Atisha muses as she rolls the bread between her hands. Evelyn nods in affirmation. 

“I came from a good family, so I’m sure that my treatment was much more careful than say, a child from the alienage. I saw it too. I am not saying the Circle was a good place for everyone, it worked for me. But I saw many faces that did not come back from their Harrowings, and many Tranquil whose only crime was curiosity. I heard whispers of brutalities, but the healers were quick to cover such things to keep the rest of the tower at ease. It is a life that should only ever be voluntary.” She says with finality. 

Atisha does not agree with Circles, but she can agree with a space for study that one chooses to attend. A school. Mages should be educated fairly and should they seek deeper knowledge, they could attend a school. 

“It is a wonder to me that they did not think to put you in charge sooner, Evelyn.” Atisha tells her. Evelyn beams. 

“I should think so too. Why should my having magic disqualify me from engaging in the politics befitting one of my birth? Truly, they only listen when they need someone to remind them that magic is meant to serve. I’ve met bastards with more political power than me. I suppose that is why you fascinate me. A country where mages are valued, and it is not steeped in blood magic.”

“Ah, but you forget we are all godless heathens, who intentionally deny Andraste and purposely refuse the Chant. If it weren’t for us, the Maker’s song would be sung across the world and surely he would return.” Atisha says jokingly. 

“They just like to forget the Qunari. The Dales are closer and easier to complain about.” Evelyn says. They both take a few more spoonfuls of soup. 

“But truly, I admire you Atisha. The Inquisition is truly blessed to have a woman of your caliber backing it.”

“Evelyn, it hardly matters what caliber anyone is. This is a threat to all of us. It would be foolish for the Dales, or anyone truly, to ignore this threat. I would have come even if my people forbid it.”

“And that is why we are lucky to have you.”

“It is not luck that I am here. Nor is it luck that you bear that Anchor.”

“Atisha you are the daughter of a self proclaimed god, surely you believe in things beyond our understanding?”

“Such as luck?”

“Such as luck and the forces that influence it.”

“You mean your god?”

“I mean any god that you believe in. Surely, you believe that there is some kind of god who put us here on this path.”

“I know what goes into being a god, Evelyn. It is not what you think. I believe in the skills of good people. I believe in the actions of men. I believe in what we are here to do, and I believe in you, Evelyn. Now finish your soup, it’s getting cold.”


	30. Chapter 30

Every week or so Atisha and Leliana sit down together in the gazebo in the garden. Usually, it is to touch bases on work. How is the progress with this relic? Can we move people to this border safely? What kind of enchantment is on this talisman? Basic things. Simple things. Leliana deals in more than spies. She deals in knowledge. In power. In death. Atisha can respect this. This woman would have been an excellent Owl. Falon’din would have adored her. And by default, so would Dirthamen. And Suledin. 

This week is different. This week, they break open a bottle of wine they have spirited away from the cellar, and they simply talk. Leliana loves to talk of simple things. She wants to know about Dalish hairstyles, how Atisha makes the kohl she lines her eyes with, cooking, dancing, songs. Leliana is a lovely woman. A lovely kind fun woman and Atisha thinks she would have done very well in the Dales. Save for her lack of magic. 

“I’ve heard,” Leliana begins as she swirls the dark liquid in her chalice. “That you have brought our commander Dalish hunting dogs.”

“Did you also hear that he tried to send them back?” Atisha asks. Her brow is drawn with focus. Leliana has been teaching her to knit Orlesian laces, and the process is time consuming. Her hands keep cramping. But the lace is so lovely. She wants to send some home to her mother when she is finished. 

“I had. I also heard that he blushed the whole time, and nearly tripped up the stairs over the pair of them.” She takes a sip of the wine and makes a content sound. 

“The blushing is not unusual for a man of his complexion.” Atisha replies. She sets the knitting needles and lace down to sip her own cup. 

“In this weather that is true enough.”

Sometimes they meet just for a quiet moment. It is nice. Atisha wraps the thread around her needle. In and out, wrap and stitch and pull, and Leliana occasionally reaches out and guides her hands through correcting a mistake. Atisha is proud of how tightly she has knitted the lace together it is smooth and fine, and barely catches on her hands as she runs them over it. She continues with the lace, it will be perfect for mother. 

“What I have not figured out,” Leliana turns her attention back to Atisha. “Is why you would bring him such nice dogs. Did I miss something? You have been spending an interesting amount of time with him, but last I checked, you dislike the commander. Why such a nice gift for a man you have no interest in being around?”

“I fear him.” She corrects the other woman. “I never said I disliked Cullen. I said I am frightened of what he is. Who he has been.”

“That does not answer my question.” 

“No,” Atisha agrees. “It does not.”

Atisha finishes the rest of her cup and holds it out. Leliana is kind enough to refill it. The wine is bittersweet, deep and dark and comforting. Atisha’s hands move on their own, the clicking of her needles filling the air of the gardens with sound. There is birdsong beyond the clicking. The air smells heavy with earth, and metallic like snow. It is peaceful here. Leliana certainly does not have to ruin that with questions Atisha does not desire to answer. But if she doesn’t answer now it will turn into a full blown investigation, and she does not need this going the wrong way. 

“We brought templars into these walls.” She tells Leliana. The woman nods knowingly. “And you are more frightened of them than you are of him, no?” Atisha sets her knitting down and looks out over the garden, eyes settling on the chantry door. “I know he was the worst of them once. Everyone dances around it. Even Varric won’t discuss what he knew of Cullen’s involvement with Kirkwall. Do not deny it. He was the worst. I know this, I see this, but I also see a man who wants to spend the rest of his life in repentance. I see a man who would fall before he allowed more injustice to occur on his watch.”

“And you intend to take advantage of that.”

“No, Leliana, I intend to be by his side in that. No Dalish has known the brand, and I will not be the first. I am frightened of what Cullen has been, and could once again be. But I must show him that even knowing that, I will stand by him as a friend. I will show him that I trust him to not turn that brand onto me, no matter what.”

Leliana considers the bottom of her cup for a moment. Then she laughs her very controlled laugh. “Were you never taught not to play with fire?” She asks. Atisha smiles at her, sharp teeth and all. “I am a mage, Leliana. I am more fire than woman.” Leliana smiles back, a genuine grin. “I would expect no less. But please, be gentle with him. That man is made of glass, and if he hasn’t already, I am sure it will not take much for him to take your kindness the wrong way.”

Oh.

Oh no. Has he not seen her intentions? Maybe he has decided she is bribing him and ingenuine in her attempts at friendship. How many poor mages have attempted to bribe him in the past? How paranoid might be with his withdrawals and history? Mythal’enaste, what if he thought her some kind of wretched snake? The color drains from her face as she drains her nearly-full cup. She does not know much about human men, let alone templars. What if they didn’t engage in friendship the same way? Seeing her increased nervousness, Leliana leans forward placing the back of her hand gently to the elven woman’s forehead. 

“Atisha? I did not intend to concern you. Are you feeling well?”

Atisha’s mouth feels very dry all of the sudden. 

“Leliana, my friend, I have made a terrible mistake.” She says very slowly. Her voice sounds distant like it is underwater. Like the lake when her and Suledin were young. “I do not understand human men, and I think I may have offended this one.” 

And why wouldn’t he? She knows elven men are prideful, so why should humans be different? She had insulted his pride. Made him seem low and weak. All with a gift meant to show her appreciation. Instead, she showed that he needed the pity of one of high birth to give him such things. She had insulted him, and did not know it. How could she have not thought he might have not understood? She did not understand him so why would he understand her?

Leliana laughs. Loud bell-like peals that bounce of Skyhold’s walls and send song birds fluttering away. 

“Offended? It is just the opposite. I have not seen him so worked up before. His own men have been complaining to me that he dotes on those dogs more than himself. He even shares his dinners with them. The poor man is beside himself with figuring out how to repay you he loves those dogs so much. It has been a delight to watch him fumble with his attempts to learn your culture. I think that if Solas had hair, he would be ripping it out strand by strand.”

Leliana snorts. 

“Wait, you’re telling me he isn’t mad?”

“No. Of course he isn’t mad.”

“Then by all the Stars and Creators, why would you say he took it the wrong way?” Atisha groans. Leliana gives her an odd look.

“Well, it could be seen as an act of courtship.” 

Atisha goes somehow paler.

“What? In what world is giving someone hunting dogs an act of courtship? What kind of insanity do you shemlen actively partake of? Is there a well of water that drives men mad that I should be drinking out of? They’re, they’re just dogs Leliana. It isn’t as if I sent him my robes or cooked for him or bought him earrings for Jun’s sake. They’re dogs! It isn’t a private luncheon or picnic in the woods, it’s a pair of dogs.” She sounds very distressed, talking faster and faster in her panic. Leliana is learning a thing or too about elven courtship.

“Dogs that belonged to your late husband.” Leliana points out.

“Dogs that I inherited, they were mine!” Atisha laments.

“You gave a Fereldan man some of the most expensive, rare dogs in the world. What did you expect him to take it as if not an act of affection?”

“It isn’t an act of that kind of affection! By the Creators, he’s human, and a Templar, and did I mention he is human? And I am First of the Sun. How does that get misconstrued? I did not write him a song or take him hunting. I gave him dogs. Andruil’s Bow and all her Arrows, I am not courting the Commander.”

Leliana hums. “Maybe you’d better tell him that before he decides to buy you flowers.” She jokes. The commander would never. Cullen is too shy a man for such things, but judging by the look of horror on Atisha’s face she doesn’t know that. 

“Yes, yes I should.” She stands abruptly, and bottle of wine goes toppling down onto her lace. The fabric is immediately stained with splotches if deep mulberry red. She will lament that later. Right now, she has to correct this.


	31. Chapter 31

Cullen watches his office door bounce off the wall with a booming crack. Atisha is prone to helping herself to his office, but she usually does not look so shaken. She must have ran up the stairs judging by the way she sucks in air like it is water. Her hair is disheveled, strands escaping the thick braid to halo around her face. The dogs rush over to lick her palms. Either hound settling at each side. They whimper with worry, and Cullen thinks his heart is doing the same. She is in her day clothes. Unarmored. He feels himself sit back down. He wasn’t aware he had stood. Cullen steadies his worry and greets her.

“Ambass-“

“I am not courting you.” She interrupts his greeting breathlessly.

Well. That isn’t exactly what he expected. Though he is not sure what he expected. He hasn’t ever seen her like this before. 

“Ah. You’re not courting me.” He echoes. It’s all he manages through the shock. Then she steps into his office, and the floodgates open.

“I am so sorry, Cullen, it’s just, I want to be your friend and I have recently been informed my efforts at friendship are culturally inappropriate and easily misunderstood, and I am not courting you. Which is not to say that you are unworthy of being courted in general, you are a very nice man and very nice to look at, it is simply that, well, you are a human and I am not interested in humans. Well. Not anything romantic at least. I’ve been interested in humans, just not in a courtship way. More in the way Bull is interested in people. One night and nothing else. I’ve never thought about anything more. But I don’t mean to sound like I’m not interested in you! I just mean that well, it isn’t that are not lovely, Cullen, it is just that I am-“

He cuts her off this time, hand held up. “Not courting me.” He finishes feeling deflated. Maker, please let her stop talking, he thinks. She stares at the floor for a moment and almost shyly replies, “Yes.”

He truly does not have time to unpack everything she has just spilled. Cullen is a bit focused on his embarrassment. He had been writing her a thank you letter inviting her to have lunch with him later when she had come in. He doesn’t have the time to process that she doesn’t hate the way he looks, just the shape of his ears. It’s, an uncomfortable feeling, being reduced to something beyond his control. Oh, there’s irony in that, he’s sure.

“I just want to be your friend.” Atisha murmurs. 

Cullen would have described Atisha as brilliant, quick, strong willed, powerful, educated. Never small. He never thought of her as little, or even noticed how slight she was until now. Until she curled in on herself and avoided eye contact. Truly, the woman is small. She looks quite fragile, but braces herself. 

Did she expect him to yell?

Maker, she really did not understand humans.

“I would be delighted to be your friend.” He tells her, tucking the letter away under a pile of reports. Maker, have mercy. This is not an easy situation he has found himself in.

“You aren’t mad?” A whisper. He watches the dogs sit on her feet. Their bright eyes are attentive on him. They may be his now, but she will always be their mother. They will protect her first. Cullen sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. 

“I’m not mad.” He confirms. She exhales a breath she didn’t know she was holding and sweeps across the room to settle in a chair. “You are the princess of another country, and I am a Fereldan nobody who stumbled into a role of leadership. Atisha, I consider myself lucky to be able to consider myself among your friends. I could ask for nothing more.”

It tastes like ash to say. But she looks very relieved. Her hands stretch over his desk and grip around his own. 

“Thank you.” She breathes. He supposes he deserves this. Cullen has always had a nasty habit when it came to falling for women he knows he can’t have. Truly, he doesn’t know why he does this to himself. The woman is recently widowed on top of being foreign royalty. It’s not right for him to even have thought of it. 

He lets her take his hands in hers and hopes he smiles a convincing smile. 

“I am sorry.” Atisha apologizes again. Are you, he thinks bitterly. Then, just as quickly, puts that away in the back of his mind never to be seen or thought again. “Atisha we are friends. You don’t need to apologize. I understand the situation. I appreciate you telling me this. You’re a good friend, Atisha.” Her face twists at that. Maybe something in his voice? She is frowning though, and he wonders what he has done this time. 

“I haven’t been a good friend, Cullen.” She tells him. 

Oh Maker. He has unwittingly opened the floodgates.

“I have been a bad friend, and so I should be honest with you.” She squeezes his hands. “You frighten me, Cullen. I am afraid of you. Mostly because of the templar thing, but also because of what you are capable of.” His stomach flips and he feels very cold. “But I think, no I know, you are a good man. Or at least you are trying to be. I admire that about you. I admire you.” He does not like how it makes his heart squeeze fast in his chest. “And I very much want to be your friend, because I want to know that man. I want to get to know the man who takes such good care of these dogs, and who worries about his men, and who has a heart so kind he could see beyond the ears of a Dalish. But I owe you an apology. I have been careless in my attempts at friendship, and I can see it has hurt you. Cullen, I want to be your friend, but I have hurt you and cannot ask you to be my friend knowing that. So, I leave this in your hands. If you want, we can keep being friends, or I will step back and we will only interact when our jobs deem it necessary. You deserve to have this choice.”

“You Dalish are very dramatic.” He says. She glares. “Of course you’re going to stay my friend Atisha.”

“Even though you frighten me, that doesn’t upset you?”

“I’ve known that since Haven. You’re hardly subtle.”

“Oh.”

“I’m used to mages tip-toeing around me. It isn’t anything new. I’d be worried if you hadn’t avoided me, or flinched when I stand up too fast.” He hates that it’s true. She considers that. He sees her face fall and sighs. “You haven’t done that in a long time. It’s okay. Friends, right?”

“Friends.” She agrees. Atisha takes the opportunity to leave. Her hand is on the door when, 

“So, was it Leliana or Josephine?”

“Leliana.”

“Of course.”

Frantic rustling of papers.


	32. Chapter 32

“You want her to what?” Evelyn asks as she giggles uncontrollably. Atisha has the look in her eye of a cat who has been unwillingly bathed as she glares at Leliana across the war table. 

“Yes, Leliana, what was that you wanted me to do?” Her voice grinds threateningly in her mouth. She bares her teeth openly. 

Evelyn is still laughing. Josephine makes herself busy with some of her papers. Cullen is staring open mouthed at Leliana. 

“You will attend the Ball with us.”

“That is what I thought you said.” Atisha snarls. “No. I am not going.” She tells Leliana. 

Josephine speaks up. “Empress Celene sent personal invitations for only two people. The Inquisitor, and yourself.”

“I do not care if she flew in from the ceiling herself with the damn invitations. I am not going. You are aware that Orlais recently slaughtered the elves in their alienages and started fires on our border, yes? Put me in the same building as that bitch and I promise you won’t need to find the assassin, she’ll be dead before you get the chance.” Atisha’s lip curls in disgust as she speaks. 

She wants to rip that shemlen bitch limb from limb. She would revel in the heat of the blood, the reek of the iron. It would feel very good. It would make her father very, very happy. 

“Yes, I am aware of your feelings towards Celene. Which is why you will be going as Cullen’s date. He keeps you from killing anyone, and you keep him from killing anyone, and we have a lovely night preventing the conquering of Orlais.” Leliana tells her.

“No.” She says at the same time Cullen says, “Absolutely not.”

They look at other and mentally she squeezes his hand. They have an understanding. They are not going to this damned ball, and if they must, they are not going to be paraded around together. There’s rumor enough since the accidental courting incident. They don’t need more issues.

“That is too bad,” Josephine begins softly, “If you won’t go with Cullen, I suppose that we will have to send you with Dorian. It would cause much more of a scene and draw far more attention. But our allies in Tevinter would love the sentiment of the son of Magister Pavus having a Dalish First wrapped around his finger.” She muses. 

Atisha shoots her a black look. If looks could kill, Josephine would be dead, brought back, and dead again. 

“Evelyn, would you tell your advisors that I am not attending this ball.” Atisha grinds out, her eyes never leaving Josephine.

Evelyn has finally stopped laughing. She looks between the women, then over to a very annoyed Cullen, and back. 

“Evelyn,” Atisha grinds out. She is growing impatient. “Now would be a lovely time to use some of that Inquisitor authority and make them see reason.”

“Celene has a dangerous court sorcerer?” Evelyn asks Leliana. Leliana nods affirmative. “Then we need to be prepared and have as many helpful hands in the palace as possible. I’m sorry Atisha, they have a good plan.”

Atisha rounds on her. “We are supposed to be friends.” She snarl-hisses. Evelyn shrugs. Atisha whips around to look at Cullen who gives her a meek shake of his head. Only willing to fight with her when Evelyn is neutral it seems. Coward. She narrows her eyes, sweeps her glare across the room. 

“You’re monsters, the whole lot of you.” And she storms out. A moment after the door closes, Leliana smugly tells Evelyn,

“Wait until she finds out about the dress.”


	33. Chapter 33

“Evelyn, I need a favor.”

It is the middle of the night. Evelyn knows this, because she is still in bed. She rolls over, glares at Atisha and makes a sleepy gurgling sound to acknowledge she is listening. She will worry about how Atisha got into her locked and guarded quarters later. 

“There are Rifts in the Dales. My father wants me to come home. People are dying. You’re the only one who can close the Rifts. Come with me.”

Evelyn curses that her prayers to the Maker to let her sleep have gone ignored. She draws herself up, slumping back against the headboard, and rubs sleep from her eyes with her right hand. The left she doesn’t dare. She’s blinded herself enough with the Anchor to know better.

“The Dales? No one’s ever been besides Dalish elves. You want me to go there?”

“Please. If you’re with me they cannot turn you back.”

Evelyn yawns. Her bruises have bruises. She has just gotten back from the Western Approach today, and now she has to leave again? There truly is no rest for the wicked. Oh how she misses her bed. But it is not every day Atisha asks for more than a conversation or inquisition resources. This is more. She resigns herself to not sleep in a bed again for a while.

“Can it wait until morning?” Evelyn asks. She tries not to get her hopes up. Please, please, please.

“Yes. It can. I will begin preparations and see you after morning meal.”

And she kept her word. Atisha moves fast, and an Inquisition caravan is ready to march before mid-sun. Evelyn notes that she is the only human included in the caravan. Atisha, noticing Evelyn’s concern tells her, “Flat-ears are more likely to pass. Less likely for us to be attacked on sight by the Knights.” This does nothing to reassure her. Instead, she settles on focusing on mounting her horse. It is a good horse. Well bred and tended to. Evelyn likes her horse. 

“Evelyn, you’re sweating.” Atisha points out as she too mounts up and the begin their way out of Skyhold. 

“So I am.” Evelyn replies. 

They are half-way across the bridge when the gallop of another horse reaches them. Atisha cranes her neck around to see who is following them and is surprised to see Thom. He catches up with them quickly enough, and stops Atisha before she can speak.

“I’m going with you. You haven’t been back since before the Conclave. We don’t know what to expect from those Rifts. I’m going with you.” Atisha allows it.

The journey to the Dales is roughly a month. Evelyn had asked what the Dales were like only for Thom and Atisha just to blankly say ‘green’ or ‘wild’ or ‘beautiful’. It isn’t much to go on. But once the forests marking the borders were in view, Evelyn understood. 

They make it twenty minutes into some of the densest growth she has ever navigated before arrows and blades are turned on them. Atisha greets the guardians with an elegant smile. There is a quick exchange of elven between Atisha and the forest elves, then they are being ushered through the woods at a whole new speed. Evelyn is sure the forest is moving, trees bowing out of their way. But she can’t prove it.

Once they make it out of the forest and into a flat plains area they are met by a party of elves, the head of which is an absolutely beautiful young man. His eyes are deep like midnight sky, and his hair a dark oaky shade. The man is clad in masterly crafted riding leathers. They are embroidered with deer, and wolves, and flowers the likes Evelyn has never seen. Atisha dismounts and he approaches her with a grin, pulling her into a tight hug. She returns the hug laughing a little then turns back to them.

“Evelyn, this is my cousin Mahanon, First of the Wolf. Mahanon, this is the Inquisitor.” 

“An’dir’an atish’an, Evelyn.” He greets her with a dazzling smile. “Welcome to the Dales. Uncle has been expecting you both.” He glances over at Thom, eyes flashing with recognition and laughs a little. “Welcome back to you, Thom. Join us, Uncle is sure to enjoy the extra company.”

And so Mahanon takes them to Var’Vhen’Shiral, capital of the Dales.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things said to Atisha in the Fade

“Don’t you want to undo them? To watch them crumble, so much ash, at your hands? They killed him. They killed more. These people who destroy without remorse. Are you not the daughter of Vengeance? Come with me, little one, and we can burn this world. Oh, don’t cry, it won’t bring him back, I know that. But we can make them regret ever having ambitions. Suledin would want you to do it. Let’s undo this unjust world together.”

And she turns Wrath away.

“Poor lonely little Atisha. Never as pretty and loved as Eralath or Mahanon. You’re nothing more than a convenient stepping stone to power. Don’t you want more? You see how the humans look at you. They want you. They’ve never seen your sister, they don’t know how beautiful she is. You could have them. You could rule these humans, and your people. They would love you. I could make them love you. Don’t you want to be loved, Atisha? You could have this world. I can give you everything. I can give you the love you deserve. Wouldn’t it be lovely to be wanted? Wouldn’t it be lovely to be the pretty sister?”

Though it is hard, she turns Desire away. 

“Why should you share godhood with the others. The humans got one thing right. You could be the only one. They would worship you. I can help you be the only one, and they will bring you shrines for ages to come. Think of the statues made of you. They would carve you in ivory and cast you in gold. All you have to do is want it.”

Greed is easy to chase away. 

“Sweet Atisha, you came into this world so gently. And all this world has done is take from you. All you do is struggle, my dear. And for what? For humans who call you knife-ear? For your father who is disappointed in your magic? You fight so hard, dear, and have gained so little. Why don’t you rest? Come, lay your head upon my lap and sleep. We can dream it all new. You don’t have to suffer and struggle. Let me give you the peace you are named after.”

Sloth tempts her, but still she turns it away. 

“What is it you want? These fools assume you are so easy a woman to know. I do not assume that. I know you are more. You are wiser, stronger, better. Tell me what you want and it is yours. Name your price. Change your price. I am more, as well. I can do anything you ask. You desire a country? I can give you that. You desire the hearts of men, I will provide. You are worthy of my service. Consider me your first disciple. Let me be your priest. You can be your own god. I will make it so. All I ask if that you let me.”

Pride is clever, and wicked, and she turns it away. 

“Look at how it bothers you to see Evelyn happy. Does that embarrass you? That you stare when she and Thom are laughing together. You wish people would look at you the same, don’t you? You wish you had the Anchor. It was a gift for you after all. And she stole it. It’s only right to resent her for that. She flails around your heritage like it is a candle while you have to grovel for any respect. Let me serve you, I will bend her to your will. If she cannot give back your gift, she shall be your gift. I will give you many gifts, Atisha. We will be the greatest.”

Envy makes her sick with how deep it pries. She banishes it from her thoughts. 

“You are more without them. You are you. I like who you are, Peace.”

Compassion’s gentle voice draws her to the world of the waking.


	35. Chapter 35

“He is not the only such abomination.” Leliana says, and she tries to make it comforting. Varric shoots her a dark look from where he had been attempting to comfort Atisha in the Rotunda. Solas had dragged her by him in a fit of rage, and left her nursing a steaming cup of bullshit tea while he went to talk with the Inquisitor about that thing in the dungeon. 

And of course, Leliana had heard them talking all the way up on her tower and had slunk down to make a comment. 

Atisha looks over at Leliana, glassy-eyed and blank faced.

“That isn’t helpful.” Varric snaps at the spymaster. He pulls his chair closer to Atisha’s and gently tugs the blanket carelessly thrown over her shoulders back into place. He had just gotten her to stop crying, if Leliana ruins this he might explode. 

“I mean only to inform,” Leliana says. She walks a bit closer. Atisha cranes her neck to keep watching, wary, eyes wide. Shit, she really looks young when she’s hurt. Her sorrow betrays her age. “This is not the only report of possession due to the Breach. And not the only report of a unique possession in general. There are whispers among the Wardens of men possessed by benevolent spirits.”

“Get to the point.” Atisha commands. She hopes her voice wavered less than it felt. It felt like cracking. Like some fragile clay had broken under the stress of her grief and left its shards embedded in her voice. Her knuckles ache, she realizes, when she shakily takes a sip of her tea to clear her throat. 

“An old friend of mine had a man under her command who was possessed by a spirit of Justice. Here, I’ve brought you the letter she sent me about it.” Leliana drops a heavy missive on the table. The wax seal of the Warden Commander was carefully cut under to avoid breaking it, but more interesting, was the second seal.

“You’ve got to be shitting me. That’s the Theirin family seal.” Varric says as he lunges to snag the letter. Atisha is still staring blankly at Leliana, and she spits, “Summarize it.” Her voice is devoid of any compassion, any patience. She is done playing this game. Her chosen, her Guardian, her Suledin is being ridden around by something like he is nothing but a shirt to wear, and Leliana is playing games.

“The man remained mostly himself, occasionally beset by fits of possession, but mostly himself. I wonder if there is a way to do that with Suledin.” Leliana tells her, nonchalantly. 

“How?” Atisha demands.

“I don’t know. But maybe if we found this man we could ask how he managed to do it.”

Varric, halfway through the letter, curses under his breath. “He’s off limits, Leliana.” And it isn’t often Varric forfeits his playful nicknames. It draws both women’s attention, and they snap their gazes to him. Varric feels very much like a lovely lamb, and these two are high dragons in this moment. 

“Why?” Atisha asks as Leliana’s quick mind runs through the information at a rapid pace. Varric pockets the letter quickly. “He just is.” He insists. Leliana must see something in the dwarf that Atisha misses because she very quickly steps forward and deftly plucks the letter back from Varric’s pocket.

“A grey warden mage possessed by a spirit of Justice,” She muses, eyes boring holes into Varric. “I wonder what you would know of such a man, and why such a man would be ‘off limits’. Is this something that is going to rile Cassandra up, Varric?”

He glares right back. 

“I’m serious, Nightingale. You don’t want to go down that path. Look, there’s got to be something else. Maybe we can experiment on those other abominations you said have been reported.”

“Ah yes, my reports. Those lovely little papers I get that give me all the juicy important details about anything and everything.”

Atisha sets her tea mug very delicately down on her uncle’s table, and just as elegantly draws herself to her feet. 

“This is simple,” She tells them. “Either you tell me if I can save him, or you let me do what he would want me to do.” 

Varric doesn’t really believe in gods, not really. Occasionally he is struck with the idea that maybe there is a little too much organization behind the chaos of his life. And sometimes he mouths a prayer or two for Bartrand. But something in the way Atisha looks at him makes his mouth dry and his hands sweat with fear. Something behind the coin gold gleam of her gaze makes the hairs on his chest stand on end. And when she gets like this, he can believe in something behind those rumors.

Just like with Evelyn.

There’s, something. 

Atisha is a different something than Evelyn. Less hope and awe, more power and fear. 

But still, something. Something that keeps him from sleeping well at night.

“It isn’t that simple.” Varric insists once he finds his voice. “Listen the man she wants to bring here. She can’t. Maker’s breath, if she brought him here, Skyhold would be turned to rubble. Cassandra might become a mage by sheer force just to burn him alive. It’s dangerous. And we don’t even know if he could help, it’s all speculation.”

“On the contrary, I have traveled with such mages. The presence of a spirit increases magical potential in ways you would not believe, Atisha. The woman I knew could bring people back from beyond death just by calling upon the spirit within her. Maker knows what this man could do. Grey warden and possessed? His knowledge of magic must be incredibly advanced.”

Atisha runs her fingers over her nails in consideration. 

“You want him for what? For a weapon? A grey warden. Haven’t we seen enough of wardens lately? And if Varric is any indication, you know who this man is.” Leliana nods. She knows who he is. “And he is apparently so wanted and dangerous it would destroy the base of our operations.”

“That, Atisha, is speculation.” Leliana quickly interrupts. 

Atisha gives her a heavy look that silences her. 

“Varric, is this man one of your friends?”

“He was. Once. That was a long time ago.”

“And could he, do you think, offer any form of helpful insight as to Suledin’s situation.”

“Maybe? I don’t really know. Magic and stuff isn’t really my forte. If anyone could it would be him, but it’s a stretch.”

A quiet moment. She picks up her mug and takes a few long sips, savoring the weak flavor. It was her uncle’s after all. Maybe he would like tea if he didn’t make such poor brews. This could barely pass for piss. Even then, she thinks, piss has flavor. After she takes the few sips, she sets the mug back down with a soft clink, and looks to Varric.

“I would like you to send him a letter for me. I will meet this man inside the borders of my country, and only my country. I will not be followed. This letter will not be traced. This will be a private personal matter of mine and mine alone. Am I understood?”

They both nod quickly. Her threat is unsaid but rings clear as chimes.

“And what if he can’t save your man?” Varric asks.

“Then I let him go about his business and we both forget it ever happened.”

She can see just a bit of relief in the dwarf’s eyes. They were friends, once.


	36. Chapter 36

Some nights, when Atisha can’t sleep she descends into the dungeons of Skyhold just to catch a look at the ghost of her heart. 

The thing that calls itself Love seems to understand this. It does not seem to often sleep well either. 

She knows her uncle would be furious if he knew. Cullen would be equally upset. A mage wandering down to see what they perceive as a threat to her integrity in the midst of the night alone, it is a dangerous prospect. Sometimes she brings food. A hunk of cheese, a loaf of bread, maybe an apple, and shares it with Love. 

It likes the same foods he did. She doesn’t know what to do with that. 

Some nights, they just talk. The creature wears Suledin’s features so fluidly, looks so conflicted. But does not deny her this. 

“Do you remember when I was very young and I bought those spiced hot cakes for Mamae even though I knew they were too spicy?”

Love laughs, eyes sparkling in the dark. It is a smooth laugh, a deep laugh. Suledin’s river laugh. 

“Yes, I thought Aunt Rahaera was going to kill me for that. She was so mad. She kept saying she could make a new Heir and begging Uncle to let her ship you off somewhere else.” He chuckles. “I don’t think she would have ever done it. She was just mad you outsmarted her.”

Sometimes, Atisha thinks, he is more Suledin than Love. She wants to believe that, at least. She wants him to be, well, him. Not whatever is possessing him. 

“You’re forgetting the best part. She was worried I had put some kind of stomach poison in them to upset her stomach, and so she asked you to eat one.” Atisha reminds him. Love, Suledin, whoever, grins. 

“My tongue lost a layer of skin. I couldn’t eat anything but plain soup for weeks after.”

“And you just chewed it and acted like you loved it because you knew I was up to no good and didn’t want to get me in trouble!” She laughs.

“I tried to take the fall for it, and your mother wouldn’t believe it was me no matter how I swore it was.”

The guard’s heavy booted footsteps echo above them the next level up. They try to keep their snickers quiet, tucking their laughter into the palms of their hands. After a moment of stifled laughter they lock eyes, and Love smiles a soft dumb smile. 

“You look at me like you looked at him.” He says. Suledin’s voice rumble slow and fills the empty space in her chest. 

Logically, she knows that this is not Suledin. Suledin did not have one green eye, he was not scarred down his left side. She knows this. She knows this spirit is finding the memories locked in his head. Atisha is completely aware of all of these things. That this, Love, very well may simply be mimicking him. Maybe it identifies so strongly with him, that it seeks to become him. Just like Compassion became Cole, or like that spirit Evelyn thought was the Divine. 

Logically, Atisha knows all of this.

It does not stop her heart from beating faster when Love shares memories with her. 

It does not stop her from wishing desperately for part of Suledin to be alive in there. 

“You look like him, you talk like him. I can’t help it.” She says back. Love nods. “I know.” He says. 

She watches him take a bite out of the apple she had brought. He leans against the back wall, chews slow and deliberate. He never comes close. Doesn’t want to give her a reason for fear. Doesn’t want to give any of them a reason. 

“Lethallin, I have to ask, when you first came to see me you were with a lion of a man. Who is he?” The subject change should shock her, but it is so like her Guardian that it doesn’t.

The crunch of apple, sweet juice sticking to his lips, eyes fixed on her. Sometimes he is more Suledin than spirit. This is one of those times. She can almost taste the edge of anger hidden under his kind tone. 

“Cullen?” She asks, shaking her head with disbelief. Surely, having worked for Corypheus and alongside Samson and Calpernia, Love should know the Commander of the Inquisition. “He is a very good friend.” She tells him. The apple cracks in his tightening grip. She watches a seed fall to the ground of the cell, nestle itself in the little space between stones. 

“I’m sure he is.” Not-Suledin says low and bitter, sounding very much like Suledin in this moment, and he sinks his very sharp teeth into the apple. She watches him rip the fruit’s ripe flesh out, chunk by chunk, chewing slowly with crunches that fill the air. There really isn’t anything else for her to say, so she tucks into her bread and watches him. He is clearly agitated. She knows him too well to pretend he isn’t. But he will tell her what has made him so upset when he is good and ready. She has learned not to push it. She has learned not to hurt him. Atisha is not seventeen and young and hot-blooded anymore. She is still young, twenty four is hardly old, but she is not so impatient. 

He finishes the apple, tosses the core to her, and settles down on his bedroll. Much like a perching crow, she thinks. 

“And Uncle? When did his teeth get so sharp with you?” He asks, recalling how Solas had all but ripped her from the dungeons the first time. “With family like ours, what can you do?” She replies. He huffs. “Love them I suppose.” He sighs back, eyes dark and deep and one the wrong color. Her chest aches all the way into her throat. 

Atisha is sure it has been too long. Soon it will be discovered that she is not in her quarters, and her bed is too cold for her to have been there. She should leave. Usually, he asks her to leave by now. But looking at him, at the vallaslin contorting with his frustration, the bags under his eyes, the sharpness of his cheeks, how could she go? They’re starving him. Not just of food. Of light, of kindness, of hygiene and peace. It’s wrong. She’s of a mind to talk to Evelyn and demand something more suited for a living person. 

Heavy bootfalls on the stairs, and he snaps his head toward the end of the hall. Not that he can see anything beyond the cell, but the attentiveness to sound and the direction of it he hasn’t lost. Atisha folds the rest of the food into the cloth it had come in and shoves it between the bars. Love wrinkles his nose, steps forward, scoops up the cloth and tucks it in his shirt. 

“You should go, your cat is looking for you.” He tells her, as the footsteps reach the bottom of the stairs. 

“Same time tomorrow?” She asks.

Love turns the startlingly green eye to her and smiles a soft sad smile.

“I’ll be here.”


	37. Chapter 37

Two months after Haven a Dalish caravan glittering in golds and reds crosses the broken down bridge into Skyhold. Josephine nearly has a stroke on the spot. It is, for lack of better terms, a political nightmare. She does not recognize the banner they fly, but knows the style. Dalish to be sure.

They brought a carriage. A beautiful, gold and gemmed carriage. Who gems a carriage? Surely, they would lose the stones to the rattle and sway of travel. There are Harts painted beautifully with gorgeous hand embroidered riding blankets. Soldiers and warriors glittering like the sun with deep purple and red silks. Dusk Riders, Atisha will later tell them, the personal guard to Elgar’nan. It’s what Suledin would have one day become. Head of the Dusk Riders. Cullen can feel his headache forming before he’s even in earshot. Leliana must be having a hay day. 

The advisors all get to the caravan in time to see a very tall, for an elf, man step out and into the sun. Cullen swears he glitters. A man. Glittering. What’s next? The man is quite handsome by normal measures. Long red hair falling in curls down his back. Gold jewelry nestled on top of his hair, delicate chains swirling along the river of his hair. Every finger has at least one ring. He is wearing some kind of ceremonial armor, if Cullen had to guess, based on the embossing on the chest piece. It looks like a mural. Some kind of dragon bone mosaic set into the armor. He isn’t sure what story it is to tell. And his shoes. Maker, his boots are worth more than the Inquisition. He looks eerily like their Elven Ambassador, Cullen has the mind to think. 

The elf’s gaze sweeps across the crowd in distaste, lip curling. 

“My daughter,” His voice carries across the courtyard, silencing anyone who spoke. “Where is she?” 

Ah, there it is.

Josephine looks like she’s going to have a conniption. 

“I, uh, yes, you must be Lord Sabrae. Please, come with me.”

“Lord?” He asks, raising a fiery eyebrow. His lips curl with disgust now. He says something in thick elvhen under his breath. It sounds like a curse, if Cullen is any judge. 

“My apologies, I am afraid I am quite ignorant to the honorifics your people use.”

He looks even less impressed as Josephine fumbles for words. Leliana steps forward quickly.

“I can take you to her, or send for her. Which would you prefer?”

He looks somehow less repulsed at this. “Now that is a reasonable response. Send for her. I do not desire to venture deeper into this,” He waves his hand carelessly doesn’t bother for the word, and turns back to his carriage. 

They send runners to fetch Atisha who is halfway up the side of Skyhold’s walls trying to climb out. When the runners tell her the man has asked for her, she climbs back down, cursing the whole way. Then she designs herself to die young and takes the long walk back to the courtyard. 

Why is he here? Why him? He never leaves the Dales. It’s why he sent her here. Their head god, leaving the Dales, it looks bad. It is bad. Is he mad at her? He must be. He only goes this far when he’s mad. She faintly registers passing her fellow advisors who look a mix of angry and confused, before she is outside the carriage. 

He never uses this damn thing.

It’s ceremonial.

The All-Father has no need to travel outside war. And no war requires such a thing.

“You sent for me, father?” She sounds very meek outside the window. The door opens, and he unfolds himself out of the carriage. Immediately, she knows she is in trouble.

Father is furious.

She has half a mind to shove some poor recruit into him and run. They had recruited templars, maybe they could slow him down enough and she could escape into the snows or something. It is a silly thought. And by the time she thinks it she is out of time.

“How hard is it,” He asks very slowly, “to write four words?”

Oh, now she’s really done it. 

“Ir abelas, Babae. I haven’t had the time, please, forgive me.”

“How long does it take, Da’len, to write ‘I am not dead’ and send it?” He snarls. 

Leliana has to decency to empty the courtyard at this point. 

“The Shem hovel you had been slumming in falls to blight and ruin, and you do not have the time to tell your family you yet breathe?” He demands. “You leave me and your mother worried sick until Dirthamen has his men confirm, that yes, you do live. You just don’t have the decency to tell your own father!” There is heat radiating off of his skin, his breath sparks and cracks as he speaks. She swears his eyes glow he is so mad. 

“I meant to write.” She says very meekly. 

“Meant to?” He all but roars back. Her ears ring. Atisha brings a hand up to rub at them to soothe them. The snow under his feet is melting rapidly as he works himself up further, hair looking more and more like real flame. Atisha hangs her head, bows low and deep.

“Forgive me, Elgar’nan. I do not mean to defy the Vir Elgar. It will not happen again.”

His hand reaches out, fingers crushing her chin as he wrenches her head up to look her in the eyes. This is going to bruise. She can feel it bruising. Her legs burn from holding the bow, spine twitching. He observes her for a moment, considering. “No,” electricity crackling across her skin stinging little blisters across her cheeks like freckles. “It will not.” He tightens his grip just a little more, turns her head side to side to observe her. “At least they’re feeding you well.” He muses. Then lets go. Atisha holds back her wince and rubs at her sore jaw. She slowly straightens and her thighs breathe a sigh of relief. Had it been mother she is sure she would have been bloodied her ears for this. Father has always let her off easy. His punishments were reading and copying texts. Her fingers ache at the memory of copying texts.

She looks well enough. Good color to her cheeks, not too thin, her hair has shine to it. Her wrists are certainly bruise free, she is not kept restrained. The clothes are new and fitting for the weather, and he can see fur peeking out of her boots. They are not the quality he would demand for her. They do not advertise her nobility, but they are of good make. She is not freezing. She is here. His daughter is alive. She is well. And he owes someone a great deal for that, he knows. Elgar’nan sighs, low and deep. “Introduce me to the people who kept you alive. I will not have it said that I do not repay my debts.”


	38. Chapter 38

Evelyn is impressive. As a mage, Atisha would personally not describe her as phenomenal, but she is definitely a force. She appreciates Evelyn’s skills. Likes to watch her train. Evelyn is a kind of beautiful that Atisha is unused to. This woman preferred the company of books all her life, but can fling lightning with the best of them. It is fascinating in a way that makes her spine flutter with electricity and her stomach tie itself into warm nervous knots. 

And lately, Evelyn has been practicing with swords. 

Atisha more than enjoys watching her fumble, and fret, and trip with the weight of a blade. The commander had been so kind as to offer to personally train her. In case her magic was spent and a fight wasn’t over, Evelyn needed to be able to defend herself. Atisha still can’t believe humans don’t train their mages in physical combat. But she appreciates him doing this. Atisha sleeps better at night knowing her friend is safe. She can’t say watching the training has helped her sleep lately, though.

She watches as Evelyn trips over her own boots, but gets a few wonderful slashes in with her training sword. The set of Evelyn’s jaw, the gleam of sweat on her brow, dark strands of hair coming free of her bun to stick to her forehead, Evelyn is beautiful. Atisha is allowed to appreciate beautiful. 

The past couple of weeks, Evelyn has been improving. She’s scores better than the first time she picked up a sword, and she even manages to get a hit on Cullen with the training blade before she has to stop to get her breath. Distantly, Atisha knows it’s inappropriate to make eyes at the Inquisitor while she trains. But she doesn’t much care when she watches the muscles in Evelyn’s back tighten as she swings the blade. Evelyn has lovely eyes too, when she focuses they remind Atisha of a dragon. Deep and knowing of her power. It makes her palms sweat. 

Lady Evelyn Trevelyan of the Ostwick Circle is a lovely woman.

Even for a Shem.

Especially for a Shem.

Atisha feels silly with her silly little girl crush on the woman who took her gift. But she can’t help it. Anyone would be a fool not to find Evelyn lovely. So, she has been finding any excuse to sit around near the training ring. Sometimes she pretends to read a book, or be translating some document, or even just comes to half-heartedly throw force magic at training dummies.

“Ambassador,” Cullen calls out to her startling her from where she was, very obviously, not reading. “Care to join us?” The bastard is smirking. 

“I wouldn’t want to intrude, Cullen.” She shouts back to him. Cullen’s smirk turns into a dazzling smile. He turns to Evelyn, says something Atisha doesn’t pick up on over the noise of others training, and Evelyn calls out. “You wouldn’t be intruding at all! Join us!”

She is going to kill Cullen. 

But she sets down her book and saunters over to where the two have been sparring. Atisha unclasps her overrobe and slings it over a fence. She then shucks off her waistband. It is tight and embroidered with suns and birds. She sets it on top of her robe. It leaves her in a well fitting shirt and a pair of samite trousers. She moves to untie and kick off her boots when Evelyn’s hand stops her. 

“Allow me.”

And Evelyn is untying her boots. Atisha is sure she has turned a nice shade of red under the bronze of her cheeks. She is glad for her heavy tan this year darkening her further. Maybe no one will notice. Evelyn deftly finishes untying and removing both boots and Atisha tucks her socks in them. She looks to Cullen expectantly.

“Weapon preference?” He asks. She gestures to a training glaive on the rack. It’s more of a spear it is blunted so. He moves to hand her the glaive, a look of utter confusion on his face that quickly dissipates when she holds it with the grip of an expert.

“Oh, I’ve never used that one.” Evelyn chirps as she comes over to eyeball the choice. Atisha feels her flush spread down her neck. “Suledin taught me most techniques. A war god should know the art of war, right? This is just my favorite.” Evelyn nods sagely, then Cullen leads them into a spar.

It’s been ages since Atisha has used this weapon, but it comes back to her. Her hands remember, her arms remember. Her teeth even remember the shake when she blocks a blow and it vibrates up her arms. The others laugh when she takes off her boots. They make fun of her. Cullen quickly learns why she does it. Her feet grip the ground, and she slides, hard, on her leg under him, glaive coming up to give a firm, careful, strike to his back.

If this was a real fight, he would be impaled. She struck right where the straps hold his armor. No protection. Then she has hooked her foot around his ankle, glaive planted on the ground, and her hand snakes under his armpit. Cullen’s lungs protest as the air is ripped from them. His chest aches. He tastes dirt, feels dust in his nose, and rolls over with a groan. He finds himself looking up at the grinning face of Atisha from the ground, her hand extended to help him up. Maker, had that tiny woman somehow thrown him over her and onto the dirt?

Evelyn is laughing. She’s covered in sweat and dust and her hands are blistered, but she is laughing like she is having the time of her life. Cullen takes Atisha’s hand, noting how she barely looks winded with horror. 

“Cullen,” She says with a wicked grin. “Care to join us in the world of standing people?”

Andraste, what has he gotten himself into?

She hefts him up to his feet with shocking strength. Seriously, where does she keep all the muscle? She weighs less than his shield he is certain. He brushes dirt off his chest. “I suppose I deserved that.” He tells her. She smiles wider. “My apologies Commander, did you think that the daughter of a god of war wouldn’t be able to hold against you? I don’t spar with you, old man, because I fear I’ll break something.” She’s teasing. He jokingly swings a fist towards her, she dances out of the way winking at Evelyn. 

“Oh, I’ll show you old.” Cullen play-threatens back, lunging for her. Atisha jumps back a tosses a magical snowball dead at his chest. Cullen looks scandalized. “Now you’re going to get it.” He tells her as he chases after her with the training sword. It’s all very undignified. Sera would be proud. “If you can catch me!” Atisha says tossing another snowball carelessly at him. He hits it with the flat of the blade, sending it back at her. The snow explodes across the side of Atisha’s head. It’s freezing.

“Got you!” Cullen declares, running to grab her hands before she conjures another snowball.

Atisha shriek-laughs and pushes Evelyn between them.

“Hey! I’m not your sacrifice!” Evelyn shouts at her with a grin. Right as Cullen nearly crashes into her. “You are now! See you at dinner!” Atisha chimes as she snags her clothes and scampers off. 

“We’ll get her back right?” Evelyn asks Cullen looking at the snow melting on his chest.

“Oh, we’ll get her back.” He agrees with a grin.


	39. Chapter 39

They are at this stupid Orlesian ball in this palace ripped from her people, and she is wearing this stupid dress, and she is being polite to stupid insensitive humans. And he won’t let her drink her annoyance away. At this moment, Atisha thinks Cullen is not her very good friend. He is, in fact, another human bastard bent out of sorts to make her suffer. And she would believe it too if she didn’t see the way he was suffering at the crowd they had drawn.

Josephine and Leliana planned this.

Her father is going to kill her when he hears the things these humans are whispering. 

She swirls her empty cup and leans into the warm velvet of Cullen’s side to tell him,

“Those two think I am pregnant with your child.”

He snorts. 

“Of course they do.” It’s very bitter and annoyed, and she agrees. “Can you hear them that far away so well?”

She shrugs. It’s a bit of being elvhen and a bit of magic. Not suited for long distances or lots of background noise. Mythal’enaste is there background noise here. 

“Depends.” She tells him. Cullen doesn’t press it further.

They hate this stupid party. The whole thing is ridiculous. Atisha would as soon kill the empress herself, put Duke whatever on the stupid human throne, and leave before anyone else suggests a tryst with her and Cullen. They must be a sour couple to look at, she thinks, looking at how wrinkled his nose in. He does look quite serious. 

“What about those ones?” He nods his head to a group of women who are chittering quietly among themselves. They remind her of birds, stupid and talking to hear themselves talk. 

Atisha focuses her magic, amplifying the sound into her sensitive ears. She settles her hand very delicately, the image of a lady, in the crook of his elbow. 

“It’s very flattering,” She says flatly. “They think you’re more handsome than the Maker himself must be. One of them thinks she could, and I quote, ‘afford you’. I wasn’t aware you were on sale, Cullen. I would have bought you ages ago just to keep me company writing reports.”

He chokes on the one cup of wine he has been nursing all night.

“Afford me?” He repeats. She nods and drums her fingers on his arm. “I don’t think I want to know what anyone else has to say.” He mutters darkly. Atisha fishes his silk napkin out of his breast pocket and dabs it on the corners of his mouth. It is all very intimate looking, and spiteful. She wants those women to burn with envy. They think her his lover, and they could not be more wrong, but it is enjoyable to hear them sputter and fuss. 

Cullen grabs her hand, works the napkin from her grip. 

“Don’t, you’re just working them up.”

“That is, after all, what we are supposed to be doing.”

He sighs. They were meant to be a distraction of sorts, but the part of him that is a little uptight, okay very uptight, does not enjoy this show. It’s inappropriate. He cannot even fathom how she is doing this so well. She slips into the part like it’s a new pair of shoes. And this part is the Commander’s elven lover. It repulses him how easy it is for both of them to catch the attention of the whole room so easy. 

It’s a damn good thing they’re friends, he thinks. Because if they weren’t he would never be able to look at her without flushing red again. Especially with how she has all but draped herself over his side all evening. 

“I think we’re doing fine without riling up jealous women.” He tells her. She hums. 

Atisha smells of Embrium and Honeysuckle, he notes, unsure why that is important. But his brain says it is. She reaches over and plucks his cup out of his hands, makes direct eye contact with him, and takes a long gulp. When she has finished she hands it back to him. 

“Atisha, we aren’t supposed to drink much.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t drink at all.”

He gives her that. But she’s already finished her glass and now she’s going after his. He worries. She very dramatically, never forgetting the audience, drags him over to take a seat next to her at one of the little tables filled with refreshments. She pops an olive in her mouth, and hands him a little sweetcake topped with rose petals once he takes his seat. 

“You’re very good at acting.” He tells her. She holds out her goblet and flutters her eyelashes. Fine, he thinks, one more cup. And he pours the wine. “I spent all my time with a son of the God of Secrets. I am not nearly as talented, but I can get away with a thing or two when I focus.” Cullen hums at that, doesn’t flinch when she brushes crumbs from his beard. “You’re talking about your, uh, late husband, right?” Her eyes soften, liquid honey he thinks. “Yes, my late husband.” She confirms as she goes for a cube of cheese.

“Cheese?” She asks, holding up the cube. He nods and holds his hand out. Atisha moves to feed it to him instead, leaning over the table and murmuring. “Evelyn is on her way over with information.” He takes a nibble instinctively, flushes rose red, and nods. 

Sure enough, Evelyn arrives with information condemning Celene and Gaspard. Leliana and Josephine must have seen her enter, because they make their way over. 

“Evelyn, my friend, have I mentioned that it is an absolute crime that they put you in that shade of red?” Atisha says by way of greeting. She rises and gives Evelyn a light embrace, ever mindful of the blood soaked into the other woman’s tunic. The color s horrendous, but does cover the evidence well enough. Evelyn smiles at her. “And what should they have put me in? A flimsy Dalish dress?” She asks jokingly. Atisha laughs, lowers her voice just a little. “Less on a woman like you is more, Evelyn.” The Inquisitor turns the same color as her uniform. “Right. Yes. Anyways. Um, report for you all. Gaspard has troops in the palace, but Celene has plenty of incriminating evidence that we could use as well.”

“Atisha, will you watch the door?” Leliana asks. They both know she doesn’t mean the ballroom door. She means the sides of the palace walls where an assassin might climb in. Atisha nods. “Fill me in later.” Atisha tells Cullen, and she winks playfully at Evelyn as she brushes past to watch the windows.

Stupid ball, stupid stolen land, stupid shem blue bloods. 

If it weren’t here, though, maybe it would be a lovely night. 

She’ll have to ask Josephine to hold more parties.


	40. Chapter 40

Cassandra seeks out Atisha during her morning meditations and seems to have no qualms interrupting them. 

“I would like to ask as to your intentions with Cullen.”

Atisha tries very hard to be patient with the Seeker out of respect, but the woman interrupts her frequently when she is tuning her magic. It’s dangerous. Magic unchecked, untuned, is dangerous. Atisha is a little more snippy than she intends to be when she asks.

“What intentions do you think I have?”

She keeps her eyes closed, moves the magic through her core. The flow of power of force, grounding and spooling and twisting in her chest. The air in Haven is cool and crisp and it helps her focus. The ground is icy beneath her. She is busy, and has no time for this woman’s games. 

“You have been spending a worrying amount of time with him of late. I want to know why.”

Atisha’s legs sing with static and chill underneath her, the snow frost-burning her knees through her pants. 

“Our work intersects often.” It is not a lie. She brings him reports on odd magic, studies on rifts, advice on where to move troops to make magically unstable areas a bit more stable. 

“Your work does not require you to take meals by him and bring meals to him. Nor does it require you to assist him in training his troops. Your work, is simply, to bring us troops and interpret. So, I will ask again, what are your intentions?”

She cracks open one bright gold eye and settles it on Cassandra. 

“Has it occurred to you, that maybe I would like to be his friend, Cassandra?”

“Bullshit.” She says instantly. “You all but jump out of your skin if he moves a pen wrong.”

Cassandra isn’t wrong. Atisha opens her second eye to glare openly at the woman.

“I intend to be his friend. Take it or leave it, Seeker.” And with that, the conversation is over. Atisha rises to her feet, brushes the snow off her legs, and marches back to the Chantry. Back to work.


	41. Chapter 41

“He got a name?” Bull asks over his tankard of whatever it is that Bull drinks as Atisha settles across the table from him. It’s cards night, and she is still learning the human version. “Has who got a name, Tiny?” Varric asks the low timbre of his voice accompanied by the crisp sound of shuffling cards. He holds them expertly. Varric is fluent in cards, Atisha thinks. “Wasn’t asking you.” Bull says to Varric. Atisha sighs, looks over at Evelyn. Evelyn slides a tankard down to table to Atisha, a sweet malt. Evelyn knows her so well. She takes a sip then addresses Bull. 

“Does who have a name?”

Bull shrugs, sets one massive hand over the card Varric has dealt his way.

“Guy who left you walking funny like that.” He says casually. Sera snorts. Thom chokes on his drink. Somewhere, Cullen and Evelyn are turning red at the prospect, and Josephine is feigning horror but is really amused. She imagines Uncle is gripping his flagon a bit too hard, but doesn’t dare look. 

“Didn’t ask.” Atisha says back as sweeps the card tossed her way into her hand. Bull laughs, loud and booming. 

She is sure Uncle is even more upset at that, she can practically feel his annoyance. Like little knives. Stabbing her in the back of her head. He’s glaring.

“You good, Chuckles? I’m getting a chill over here.”

“I am fine, Varric.” Is the short response. 

Atisha takes her second card and mentally cries. It’s perfect in Dalish rules. Sub-par in human. 

“Why do you ask, Bull. Are you jealous?” Her eyes glisten, voice playful. Bull grins at her, his messy genuine grin. 

“You know me, ‘Sha, got a soft spot for redheads. We don’t have you gingers back home. Why, you offering?”

She laughs. This is an ongoing joke between the two of them. The flirting, that is. Not the redhead thing. He’s very serious about that, she knows. As serious as he is about his love of killing dragons, or his desire to protect his people. She winks at him, takes another card. Bull winks right back and takes a sip out of his tankard. The edges of the table curl with frost. Uncle is very unhappy with this, and it amuses her greatly. 

“I’m not sure,” Atisha drawls as she watches for people’s tells around the table. “What’s it going to cost me?”

He makes a show of eyeing her up and down, takes another card, peeks at his hand. Looks at her again and puts on a very thoughtful look.

“Usually, too much. But for you, ah what the heck, I’d do you for free.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You should be. I’m not usually so cheap.”

“That’s what I hear.” She muses.

Thom’s lip quirks in the corner. He’s got a damn good hand for that. She studies her cards, weighs the risks, watches Sera toss in another coin and stick her tongue out in concentration. Bull saw it too, she knows, because he is looking away from Thom. Intentional. Don’t draw attention to it. She takes a few heft gulps of the malt. It is sweet, barely burns, but makes her head swim in a warm floaty way. Like a hot bath. 

“Aw, shit.” Sera curses under her breath as she gets her last card.

A chorus of ‘I’m outs’ echoes around the tavern. Atisha joins them in folding. Sera has to have a damn good hand to be that quiet. She glares. “Pissbags the whole lot of you. I would have made good money off that.” Sera grumbles. Varric shrugs. “Who wants next deal?”

“I would.” Solas chimes in. Varric hands him the deck he has expertly shuffled. It’s the usual hand. The usual gossip, the usual chatter and jokes. Thom and Sera poking fun at her uncle, while Cullen desperately tries not to bet away his clothes. Bull winks at her occasionally, so Atisha blows him back a kiss or two. Evelyn, being Evelyn, is counting cards more obviously than Josephine is, and is still winning. 

It is a good night. It is not often they have nights like this.

Atisha wonders if Suledin would like it. Who would he sit by? Would Varric tease him incessantly while he tried to understand human rules? Would Dorian lecture him on how choppy his hair is? She thinks he and Leliana would get along beautifully. They’d cheat together and go home with the whole damn pot each time. He’s good at things like that. Talented. Would Bull play with him too? Tease him like he’s family. Make fun of him for liking that expensive noble man wine he likes. She wonders if they would like him.

Atisha knows she would feel a lot less lonely with him here.

But instead he’s in the cells below Skyhold, body hostage to a spirit. 

“Hey, you okay, Sunflower?” 

Atisha realizes the table has gone quiet. All eyes are turned on her. It’s her turn and it has been for a moment, she realizes. She looks up at Varric, sees the warm concern in his eyes. Brother of the stone, so kind to her. Treats her like she’s a person not a title, or nobility. He is just, kind. 

She slides a coin towards the pot. Doesn’t know if that’s the best choice, hasn’t been looking.

“Tough decision.” She jokes, voice wavering only a little. The rest of them have the decency to laugh.

“That it is.” Varric agrees. 

If only he knew. 

Evelyn, to no one’s surprise, takes that round.

“Would you like to deal this round?” Uncle asks her. Atisha shakes her head no. He nods, passes the deck to Josephine.

Atisha drains her tankard. 

Cassandra and that mage, Anders, had given her what little options there were. She had come to play cards to take her mind off of it. She had bedded the damn shem soldier to take her mind off of it. But it keeps working its awful way back into her brain. Kill the abomination, lose Suledin forever. She had told Anders that it wasn’t an option. He agreed. His second option was worse, far worse. 

The Rite of Tranquility.

If he survived it, it would unbind the spirit from him granted it was done near a rift. It’s all very theoretical, odds are it would kill Suledin. But, there’s a chance, the man had said, based on his research into reversing Tranquility and possession. And he had done plenty of research into such things.

Cassandra had agreed. 

Atisha had wanted her to say it wasn’t possible. That it couldn’t do that. But the truth is, they don’t really know what Tranquility can do, besides sever mages and give Seekers power. And Cassandra had said they could even reverse it if Suledin lived and Cole was willing. 

But at what cost?

Suledin is a mage. Reversing Tranquility of a mage is catastrophic for a mage. It would destroy him. He’d be barely a man, a vegetable. Her options are kill him, have him as a shadow of himself, or have him as nothing more than a breathing corpse. They are not options. Uncle hadn’t even been able to argue the options, saying instead that they were magically sound and theoretically possible. He would not advise her on the correct course of action. ‘He is your husband, your household, your responsibility.’ And she hates that he is right.

Atisha somehow takes the pot this round by sheer luck. Dorian refills her mug with some of his flowery wine, but she doesn’t much care what goes into it, so long as it keeps her from focusing on the man in the dungeons. 

Not that the alcohol is stopping her anyways. 

“That’s a grim look. He that bad?” Bull asks. Atisha knows she means the mystery man she had bedded before coming here, but she’s half a mind to snap at him. She chooses not to, instead grimaces and takes a long drink. He’s just trying to lighten the mood. No need to snap his head off for it. Bull laughs a bittersweet laugh. “You need better men in your life, ‘Sha.” He says shaking his head, horns dangerously close to cracking Thom’s skull. Thom ducks, glares up at Bull. Bull shrugs sheepishly. 

“I’ve too many good men in my life. That’s the problem, Bull.” Atisha teases back only half interested in playing. He chuckles. “Me? A good man? You wound me, ‘Sha.” He accepts the deck from Sera, his deal. “I’m sure I can think of a good man or two who could show you a good time.” He says as he passes out cards. Solas excuses himself from the game with an excuse of a headache and walks briskly away from this conversation. 

“If you’re about to say Krem or Thom you’d best stop while you’re ahead.”

Bull’s hand hovers above Thom’s shoulder mid-clap. 

“I wasn’t about to say that.” Bull says slowly pulling his hand back to him.

“You were too!”

“Okay maybe I was.”

“Doesn’t Krem already have his eye on a lady? You’re supposed to be his friend and you’re out here undermining him!”

“Someone’s got to take the initiative for him.” He says with a shrug. Thom looks very small and takes a very long drink. 

“Bull, my friend, I appreciate your concern but truly, I’m fine.”

“I get it, rugged warrior isn’t your type.” He jokes. She rolls her eyes. 

“No,” Varric chimes in with a wicked grin, “Sweet sheltered chantry girl is.”

Evelyn sputters, spits up her ale. 

The table roars in laughter. 

“You think I’m after Evelyn?” Atisha says with feigned horror tossing her hand across her chest. Evelyn glares at her antics.

“Please, you practically drool when she says hello. It’s all very sweet and disgusting.” Dorian chimes in.

“Maybe,” Atisha says over the rim of her mug after she drops her theatrics. “My type is a little less human. Have you lot considered that?”

“Sunflower, I’m flattered. But I’m sorry, I’m a taken man.”

“Thwarted again by the crossbow.” Evelyn says sagely, eyes sparkling. 

Everyone is giggling so hard they almost miss Cullen win. He never wins. There’s a collective groan and he snatches back his cloak from Josephine. She looks very disappointed to have to give it back to him after winning it four rounds ago. 

“No but seriously,” Varric draws their attention back to the topic at hand. “What is your type, Sunflower?”

“Alright, this is getting far too suspicious. Whose money is on who?” She asks back.

“You wound me. I would never place bets on the status of your very strange love life.” Varric faux laments. 

Atisha shoots him a look. He shoves his finger across the table. 

“My money’s on Curly.”

A chorus of complaints fill the air. “Not fair, you can’t tell her, it’s leading the bet.” Leliana says. “My money’s off the table.” Dorian agrees. Atisha narrows her eyes at the rest of them as they empty coin from their pockets, tossing it back to each other. Cullen, for his part, looks sheepish as he draws coin from his own pockets and tosses it back. 

He was in on the bet.

Bastard.

Wait.

“Cullen, who did you put your money on?”

“Why, the Inquisitor of course.” He says. Evelyn flicks his ear. He ducks out of her reach. 

“You people are animals.” Atisha says as she scoops up the money. Bet’s off, she figures the coin is hers. 

“I was friggin’ sure it would be Solas. The two of you are so damn elfy.” Sera says as she tosses her money over to Atisha. Atisha’s face must betray her at that because everyone looks incredibly curious at her disgust. 

“Not Solas.” Is all she says, stomach flipping. It’s all very repulsive. He’s her uncle, for Jun’s sake. Of course, they don’t know this. It’s not their fault. It’s just. Foul. 

She turns to Bull, waiting for him to hand her the money.

“Hold on a minute here. We never determined who. I might still win.” He says, hands clasped around a few coins. 

“You won’t win.” She assures him.

“You don’t know that.”

They lock eyes for a moment. Stubborn man. 

“Fine, you all want to know so badly who I’m interested in?” Everyone chimes in their affirmations. 

“Well then, did anyone put money down on my husband?”

Oh. The room is quiet. Everyone looks at each other nervously. It’s a delicate subject, the thing in the dungeons, they really don’t talk about it. Bull sets his coins down on the table.

“Pay up ‘Sha.”

Oh. Her breath slips out of her lungs fast and hard. She feels her hand let go of what she has gathered, little metal coins tinkling as the hit the table. Bull had won after all. He had known her well enough. She drops his winnings on the table, and he smiles a reassuring smile. Creators, of course he knew her. He is among her closest friends. Of course he won. 

“Bull, you are a shrewd businessman. I’m taking you with me next time Varric wants to make a silly bet.” She tells him, throat dry. 

“I usually charge for those services.” 

“How much?”

Bull looks her up and down very slowly, lips pulling into a smile and eye glimmering with mirth.

“For you? Ah, I’d do it for free.”


End file.
